“He’s not here, masters, that’s sartin,” Will Duddon cried. “We’ll hark back, and see whether he be further up; though he must have come down the stream if no life were left in him.”
With this they retraced their steps, and proceeded to a considerable distance beyond the place where Pownall had been shot, until they reached another pool, somewhat larger than the one they had just explored. There seemed little likelihood that the body would be found here, but this was the last chance, and accordingly the men set to work again, splashing about, plying spear and pole as actively as before, and leaving not a hole or corner unvisited, but with no better success than heretofore. At last, they both came out.
“Well, we’ve done our best to find him for you, masters,” Will Duddon said; “and if he had been in the dyke, or in either of these pools, we couldn’t have missed him. But the man has either got out himself, or been taken out — that’s clear.”
We could not contradict the assertion. Further search seemed hopeless.
At this juncture Tom Tarvin shouted out, “What’s that?” and ran towards a sloping bank through which the dyke was cut in its junction with the pool.
We all thought that the object of our scrutiny was at last discovered, but it proved to be only an old shoe which was left sticking in the soft boggy soil. On examination of this shoe, I felt almost sure that it had belonged to Pownall. If the supposition was correct, how came it there? Had Pownall only been severely wounded, and had he managed to creep out of the dyke at this point? or had the shoe been dropped by those who bore away the body? The former conjecture seemed the more probable, for it was evident that the shoe had been plucked from the foot of the wearer by the tenacious soil of the bog. Further search resulted in our finding an old coloured neckerchief, which I identified as belonging to Pownall, for I had seen him wear it on the previous night. We continued our investigations around and about the place for some time longer, but without further result.
We next proceeded to examine the hut. The interior was left in precisely the same state as I had seen it on the night before. The peat fire was still smouldering on the hearthstone. In searching the shed we made a singular discovery. After removing a quantity of dry fern and gorse, with which the little outbuilding was filled, we found that the floor was paved, and it presently appeared that one of the flags had an iron ring fixed in it by which it could be lifted, as well as a bar to fasten it down. Raising this flag, which moved on hinges like a trapdoor, a dark, damp vault was disclosed. On descending into this subterraneous chamber by a short ladder reared just underneath the opening, we found that it was entirely constructed of stone, and was evidently of great antiquity. Most probably the vault had been an underground cell used by a recluse in old times, and might have belonged to the Monastery of Saint Mary in Vale Royal. A light was kindled, and we were then enabled to examine the spot more carefully. The roof was arched and groined, and the masonry was but slightly dilapidated, but as may be supposed, the place was excessively damp from the constant moisture dripping through the stones. The floor was an inch or two deep in black ooze. Nothing could be more wretched than the aspect of the vault, and the austerest penitent would have shrunk aghast if enjoined to occupy it. And yet Pownall had been thrust into this dismal hole by his confederates! A few trusses of straw were thrown in one corner, on which he had found refuge from the damp floor. The chamber must have been perfectly dark when occupied by the captive, but air was admitted by a small grated aperture at one end of the roof. If this aperture had been choked up, the poor wretch must inevitably have perished. Indeed, it was a marvel, that he had survived his confinement. A broken pitcher set on the ground near the trusses of straw was the only memento left of him. We were glad to get out of the place, and breathe the fresh air once more.
“Poor wretch!” Major Atherton exclaimed, “if he was immured in that vault for three or four days, he must have suffered enough for his offences, be they what they may.”
“It is very odd we can find no traces of the body,” Cuthbert Spring remarked. “The man may have only been wounded after all, and have crept out of the dyke.”
“I begin to think so,” I said.
“I tell you what, my young friend,” Old Hazy observed, gravely, “you need not go so far to find a solution of the mystery. You have been beguiled by evil spirits, and the whole scene you have witnessed has been merely a phantasm conjured up to perplex you. Delamere Forest is notoriously infested by elves, sprites, and fairies, and these mischievous beings have made you their sport. When we get back to the Grange, I will find you several instances of similar delusions in Thiraeus and Robert de Triez.”
Serious as the subject was on which we were engaged, I could scarcely help smiling at this singular view of the case, and I saw that Major Atherton’s gravity was a good deal disturbed, while Cuthbert Spring was at no pains to repress his laughter.
“So then, sir,” I said, “your opinion is that evil spirits assumed the forms of Malpas Sale, the two gipsies, and Simon Pownall?”
“I have no doubt of it whatever,” he replied. “I will cite you a passage presently in confirmation of my opinion from Pere Jacques D’Autum’s ‘ Learned Incredulity.’”
“I wish I could think so,” I said, “but unluckily I cannot help believing in the reality of the scene; and I feel as certain as I do of my existence that I saw Pownall shot by Malpas Sale, and fall — lifeless, it seemed to me — into that dyke.”
“If that had been the case, we should find his body,” the old gentleman cried. “But we can’t, sir — we can’t. No; it is evidently a delusion. Bead Pere Jacques, and be convinced.”
No more could be said in refutation of such an argument, so having rewarded the poor turf-cutters for the assistance they had rendered, we returned to the carriage.
It was then decided that we should proceed to Marston by the most direct road, which from this point was by Northwich, and not by Weverham. Old Hazy would fain have had us call at the Orange, saying he was sure we must stand in need of refreshment after our exertions, but this we declined, as we suspected him of a design of producing Pere Jacques. Stephen Blackden, however, was dismissed with the implements we had used in the search, and enjoined to make the ladies easy in case of our non-appearance.
CHAPTER XV.
THE EXAMINATION BEFORE THE MAGISTRATES.
WE halted for half an hour at Northwich, and the afternoon was advancing ere we reached Marston. Major Atherton and I had ridden on before the carriage, and we dismounted at the Nag’s Head.
“Please to step into the parlour, gentlemen,” Mr. Hale, the landlord, said, opening the door of a small room, and ushering us into it. “You’ll like to be private, I make no doubt. Mat, the ostler, will see to your horses. Ned Culcheth has only just stepped out, and will be back presently.”
“I suppose you know what has happened, Mr. Hale?” I said. —
“I do, sir,” he replied; “Ned has told me all about it. But you’ll excuse me for saying that in the present stage of proceedings I would rather not give an opinion on the subject. There are two sides to every question, you know, sir, and I like to be on the right side.”
“Very prudent, Mr. Hale. Can you inform me whether Captain Sale has been arrested?”
“Oh! yes, sir, he’s in custody of Bryan Peover, the constable,” the landlord replied. “The examination is fixed for five o’clock, for Ned said you were sure to be here by that time, and will take place in the justice-room at the vicarage. It’s half-past four now. So you fancy you can bring the matter home to the captain, eh, sir?”
“I’m sure of it, Mr. Hale,” I replied.
“Well, they think differently at the vicarage. They say it’s a trumped affair. Excuse me, sir — but that’s their opinion — not mine. I have no opinion at present. Anything more to say to me, sir? If not, I’ll go and send a messenger to Mr. Twemlow, the magistrate’s clerk, to let him know you are come.”
With this he went out, but almost instantly
returned to say that a young woman wanted to speak to me outside. On hearing this, I accompanied him to the outer door, where, to my great satisfaction — for I felt how important her testimony might be in the examination — I beheld Rue.
“I thought you would want me,” she said, “so I have come. I have seen Ned Culcheth, and have heard all that has happened. You managed the affair badly last night — but you mustn’t fail to-day.”
“I don’t intend to fail, if I can help it,” I replied. “But your evidence is material, and must be given.”
“It shall,” she answered.
At this moment the carriage drove up to the door of the little inn, and as Old Hazy and Cuthbert Spring alighted, she retired.
Shortly afterwards, Ned Culcheth made his appearance, and we set out in a body for the vicarage. The whole village was astir. Women and children stood at the doors of the cottages to see us pass, and a crowd followed in our train. Amongst those who attended us thus, and whom I recognised, were Job Greaseby, the smith; Farmer Shakeshaft; William Weever, from Nethercrofts; and Chetham Quick. Loud and angry discussion was going on amongst these personages as to the probable result of the examination, and I could hear Chetham Quick roundly declare that he was confident the charge would fall to the ground.
The vicarage, as I have already mentioned, closely adjoined the church. It was a large, comfortable old house, surrounded by a grove of fine trees, with a delightful garden at the back, having a smooth-shaven lawn sloping down to the mere. As we turned up the little lane leading to this ordinarily quiet residence, our numbers had greatly increased, and we must have been at the head of a troop of thirty or forty people, all curious to hear the inquiry. Of course, we could not dismiss them, but it was evident that so many persons could not be admitted, and a stoppage took place at the garden-gates, where Ben Tintwisle, the fat old beadle, was stationed. Ben looked very big and portentous, being arrayed in his scarlet cloak, and having his laced cocked-hat on his head, and his rod of office in hand. Twelve persons were only allowed to pass him. Ned Culcheth tarried at the gate for Rue, who had not yet come up, and I went on with the others. A footman was standing at the door, who ushered us into the dining-room, begging us to be seated, and saying he would let us know when all was ready. We took the seats assigned us, and had not occupied them more than a few minutes, when the man returned, and requested us to follow him.
The justice-room, whither we were now conducted, was situated at the rear of the house. It was a large, plainly-furnished apartment, with a desk at the upper end, at which the doctor sat when he heard complaints, signed warrants, arranged disputes, or otherwise exercised his functions as a magistrate. On either side of the old-fashioned chimney-piece were bookcases, and facing it was a large bow-window, commanding a beautiful view of the mere. Portraits of some of the Vernon family — Mrs. Sale, it will be recollected, was a Vernon — hung against the walls, and there was also a portrait of my uncle Mobberley, which, though painted after the good old man’s death, and copied from a miniature, was exceedingly like him. No attempt had been made to flatter the unpretending old farmer. There he was as I had known him, in his simply-cut blue coat, with his prominent nose and chin, his right eye covered with a great black patch, and his left orb blazing fiercely. Beneath this portrait was suspended a plan of Nethercrofts and the property thereunto appertaining, and I could not help thinking there was a kind of dramatic propriety in the circumstance of this portrait and plan being brought in juxtaposition on the present occasion. Who so fitting to be a silent witness of the scene about to be enacted — a scene arising out of the disappearance of his own will — as John Mobberley? What accessory so appropriate as a plan of the property in dispute?
Ned Culcheth and I were the last to enter the justice-room. Casting my eyes around, I saw that all the rest of the assemblage had taken their places. In the chair usually occupied by Doctor Sale sat Mr. Mapletoft, of Birkinfield Hall, an elderly gentleman, with a quick grey eye, and a keen expression of countenance. He was tall, rather high-shouldered, and of a spare frame, and his silvery white hair contrasted with his ruddy complexion. Mr. Maple toft’s invariable attire in a morning was a green Newmarket coat, buckskins and top-boots. On the right of the senior magistrate sat Mr. Vernon, of Fitton Park (Doctor Sale’s brother-in-law) — a very aristocratic-looking personage, with fine, though rather prominent features, and a very stately deportment. Like Mr. Mapletoft, Mr. Vernon wore a riding-dress and boots. Mr. Hazilrigge, who was in the Commission of the Peace, had a place assigned him on the left of the principal magistrate, and next to him — though with a little interval between them — sat Doctor Sale. On the other side of the seat of justice, and close to Mr. Vernon, was placed a small table, at which sat the magistrate’s clerk, Mr. Twemlow — a bald-headed man, attired in black — with pens, ink, and paper, and a few lawbooks before him. Behind the magistrates sat Cuthbert Spring, and a few paces behind Mr. Spring, and in a corner of the room, to which he had retired as if to avoid observation, stood Major Atherton.
One feature in the arrangements of the room did not fail to attract my attention. In the vicinity of Doctor Sale a large Indian screen was placed, so disposed as to conceal the person who sat behind it, and who was no other than Mrs. Sale, from general observation, but revealing her presence to the magistrates, and to all those who, like myself, were stationed near them. After glancing at her for a moment, I did not dare to look at her again, for the sight of her distress quite unmanned me. At the lower end of the room, on the right, were grouped together some ten or a dozen yeomen, amongst whom were Parmer Shakeshaft, William Weever, and old Job Greaseby. A clear space in front of the magistrates was preserved by the fat beadle, who kept continually knocking upon the floor with his wand.
Such were the general arrangements of the room. I ought co mention that there were three doors; one on the right of the chimney-piece, near which sat Mrs. Sale, partially hidden, as I have described, by the screen; and two others at the lower end of the room. One of the latter communicated with the offices, and the other with a little passage leading to the back staircase, and it was through the last of these that Malpas was introduced, as I shall now proceed to relate.
After the senior magistrate and Mr. Vernon had conferred together for a few minutes in a low tone, the former signified to Mr. Twemlow that they were ready to hear the case; whereupon silence having been authoritatively imposed upon the group of talkative yeomen in the corner by the fat beadle, who thumped his wand upon the floor, the magistrate’s clerk rose and directed that Captain Sale should be introduced. Upon this, Tintwisle marched to the door I have described, and opening it, delivered the summons in a loud voice.
In the profound silence that ensued, steps could be distinctly heard outside, and in another moment Malpas entered into the room, closely attended by Bryan Peover, the constable, a stout-built, hard-featured man. Stepping lightly forward into the centre of the open space reserved in front of the magistrates, Malpas entered, bowed gracefully and deferentially to Mr. Mapletoft, and those on either side, and then, drawing up his fine figure to its full height, fixed his gaze sternly and steadily on me. He looked extremely pale, but determined. Though it was quite evident from his manner that he did not underrate the peril in which he stood, yet it was equally clear that he was not in the slightest degree cast down by it, but felt confident of acquittal. There was nothing of insolence or bravado in his manner, but he appeared as if deeply hurt and indignant at the charge brought against him, and eager to justify himself. His attire was studiously elegant, and nothing had been neglected likely to heighten the effect he desired to produce. As he entered the room, poor Mrs. Sale started up with a faint cry, and leaned forward from behind the screen to look at him, but Doctor Sale took her hand, and induced her to resume her seat. Major Atherton, also, who had hitherto kept in the background, came forward, as if moved by curiosity. Bryan Peover thought it behoved him to stand close by his charge, but at a sign from Twemlow he now moved back, and Malpa
s stood alone in the midst of the assemblage.
After the customary oath had been administered to me by the magistrate’s clerk, I commenced my narration; but as the reader is already familiar with the particulars of the case, it will be unnecessary to recapitulate them. When I had concluded, Malpas emphatically denied the charge, which he characterised as utterly false and malicious, and declared he should be able completely to disprove it. The first witness whom I called in support of my statement was Ned Culcheth, and he confirmed it in every particular, but the weight which might have been attached to his testimony was a good deal shaken, when Malpas, addressing himself to the bench, said, “You have heard, gentlemen, what this man has stated. Have I your permission to ask him a question, which will throw some light on the motive by which he has been actuated in coming forward against me in this manner?” Permission being granted, he then turned sharply to Ned, and said, “Now, fellow, will you declare upon your oath that you have not sworn to be revenged upon me for some imaginary wrong?”
“It was no imaginary wrong,” Ned rejoined.
“That is not an answer to the question,” Mr. Mapletoft said. “We do not want to know the nature of the provocation you have received, nor whether it be real or imaginary. But we desire to be informed whether you have ever nourished ill-will towards Captain Sale, and uttered threats against him? In a word, have you borne him a grudge?”
“I can’t deny it, your worship,” Ned replied.
Mr. Mapletoft lifted up his eyebrows, and glanced at Mr. Vernon.
“May I ask you, gentlemen,” Malpas continued, “to call William Weever, Thomas Shakeshaft, and Job Greaseby, all persons of undoubted veracity, and here present, and inquire from them whether they have not heard Culcheth openly threaten my life?”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 488