Mrs. Ambrose kept her word and arrived with the vicar before nine
o'clock, protesting her determination to take care of poor Goddard, so
long as he needed any care. Mr. Juxon warned her that John did not know
who the man was, and entreated her to be careful of her speech when John
was present. There was no reason why John should ever know anything more
about it, he said; three could keep a secret, but no one knew whether
four could be as discreet.
The squire took Mrs. Ambrose and her husband to Goddard's room and
telling her that Doctor Longstreet was expected in an hour, by which time
he himself hoped to have returned, he left the two good people in charge
of the sick man and went to see Mrs. Goddard. He sent John a message to
the effect that all was well and that he should take some rest while the
Ambroses relieved the watch, and having thus disposed his household he
went out, bound upon one of the most disagreeable errands he had ever
undertaken. But he set his teeth and walked boldly down the park.
At the turn of the avenue he paused, at the spot where Goddard had
attacked him. There was nothing to be seen at first, for the road was
hard and dry and there was no trace of the scuffle; but as the squire
looked about he spied his hat, lying in the ditch, and picked it up. It
was heavy with the morning dew and the brim was broken and bent where
Goddard's weapon had struck it. Hard by in a heap of driven oak leaves
lay the weapon itself, which Mr. Juxon examined curiously. It was a
heavy piece of hewn oak, evidently very old, and at one end a thick iron
spike was driven through, the sharp point projecting upon one side and
the wrought head upon the other. He turned it over in his hands and
realised that he had narrowly escaped his death. Then he laid the hat and
the club together and threw a handful of leaves over them, intending to
take them to the Hall at a later hour, and he turned to go upon his way
towards the cottage. But as he turned he saw two men coming towards him,
and now not twenty yards away. His heart sank, for one of the two was
Thomas Gall the village constable; the other was a quiet-looking
individual with grey whiskers, plainly dressed and unassuming in
appearance. Instinctively the squire knew that Gall's companion must be a
detective. He was startled, and taken altogether unawares; but the men
were close upon him and there was nothing to be done but to face them
boldly.
Gall made his usual half military salute as he came up, and the man in
plain clothes raised his hat politely.
"The gentleman from Lunnon, sir," said Gall by way of introduction,
assuming an air of mysterious importance.
"Yes?" said Mr. Juxon interrogatively. "Do you wish to speak to me?"
"The gentleman's come on business, sir. In point of fact, sir, it's the
case we was speakin' of lately."
The squire knew very well what was the matter. Indeed, he had wondered
that the detective had not arrived sooner. That did not make it any
easier to receive him, however; on the contrary, if he had come on the
previous day matters would have been much simpler.
"Very well, Gall," answered Mr. Juxon. "I am much obliged to you for
bringing Mr.--" he paused and looked at the man in plain clothes.
"Booley, sir," said the detective.
"Thank you--yes--for bringing Mr. Booley so far. You may go home, Gall.
If we need your services we will send to your house."
"It struck me, sir," remarked Gall with a bland smile, "as perhaps I
might be of use--prefeshnal in fact, sir."
"I will send for you," said the detective, shortly. The manners of the
rural constabulary had long ceased to amuse him.
Gall departed rather reluctantly, but to make up for being left out of
the confidential interview which was to follow, he passed his thumb round
his belt and thrust out his portly chest as he marched down the avenue.
He subsequently spoke very roughly to a little boy who was driving an old
sheep to the butcher's at the other end of the village.
Mr. Juxon and the detective turned back and walked slowly towards the
Hall.
"Will you be good enough to state exactly what the business is," said the
squire, well knowing that it was best to go straight to the point.
"You are Mr. Juxon, I believe?" inquired Mr. Booley looking at his
companion sharply. The squire nodded. "Very good, Mr. Juxon," continued
the official. "I am after a man called Walter Goddard. Do you know
anything about him? His wife, Mrs. Mary Goddard, lives in this village."
"Walter Goddard is at this moment in my house," said the squire calmly.
"I know all about him. He lay in wait for me at this very spot last night
and attacked me. My dog pulled him down."
The detective was somewhat surprised at the intelligence, and at the cool
manner in which his companion conveyed it.
"I am very glad to hear that. In that case I will take him at once."
"I fear that is impossible," answered the squire. "The man is raving in
the delirium of a brain fever. Meanwhile I shall be glad if you will stay
in the house, until he is well enough to be moved. The doctor will be
here at ten o'clock, and he will give you the details of the case better
than I can. It would be quite impossible to take him away at present."
"May I ask," inquired Mr. Booley severely, "why you did not inform the
local police?"
"Because it would have been useless. If he had escaped after attacking
me, I should have done so. But since I caught him, and found him to be
very ill--utterly unable to move, I proposed to take charge of him
myself. Mrs. Goddard is a friend of mine, and of the vicar, who knows her
story perfectly well. To publish the story in the village would be to do
her a great injury. Mrs. Ambrose, the vicar's wife, who is also
acquainted with the circumstances, is at this moment taking care of the
sick man. I presume that my promise--I am a retired officer of the
Navy--and the promise of Mr. Ambrose, the vicar, are sufficient
guarantee--"
"Oh, there is no question of guarantee," said Mr. Booley. "I assure you,
Mr. Juxon, I have no doubt whatever that you have acted for the best.
Can you tell me how long Goddard has been in the neighbourhood?"
The squire told the detective what he knew, taking care not to implicate
Mrs. Goddard, even adding with considerable boldness, for he was not
positively certain of the statement, that neither she nor any one else
had known where the man was hiding. Mr. Booley being sure that Goddard
could not escape him, saw that he could claim the reward offered for the
capture of the convict. He asked whether he might see him.
"That is doubtful," said the squire. "When I left him just now he was
quite unconscious, but he has lucid moments. To frighten him at such a
time might kill him outright."
"It is very easy for me to say that I am another medical man," remarked
Mr. Booley. "Perhaps I might say it in any case, just to keep the
servants quiet. I would like to see Mrs. Goddard, too."
"That is another matter. She is very nervous. I am going to her house,
now, and probably she will come back to the Hall with me. I might perhaps
tell her that you are here, but I think it would be likely to shock her
very much."
"Well, well, we will see about it," answered Mr. Booley. They reached the
house and the squire ushered the detective into the study, begging him to
wait for his return.
It was a new complication, though it had seemed possible enough. But the
position was not pleasant. To feel that there was a detective in the
house waiting to carry off Goddard, so soon as he should be well enough
to be moved, was about as disagreeable as anything well could be. The
longer the squire thought of it, the more impossible and at the same time
unnecessary it seemed to be to inform Mrs. Goddard of Booley's arrival.
He hastened down the park, feeling that no time must be lost in bringing
her to her husband's bedside.
He found her waiting for him, and was struck by the calmness she
displayed. To tell the truth the violence of her emotions had been wholly
expended on the previous night and the reaction had brought an intense
melancholy quiet, which almost frightened Mr. Juxon. The habit of bearing
great anxiety had not been wholly forgotten, for the lesson had been well
learned during those terrible days of her husband's trial, and it was as
though his sudden return had revived in her the custom of silent
suffering. She hardly spoke, but listened quietly to Mr. Juxon's account
of what had happened.
"You are not hurt?" she asked, almost incredulously. Her eyes rested on
her friend's face with a wistful look.
"No, I assure you, not in the least," he said. "But your poor husband is
very ill--very ill indeed."
"Tell me," said she quietly, "is he dead? Are you trying to break it to
me?"
"No--no indeed. He is alive--he may even recover. But that is very
uncertain. It might be best to wait until the doctor has been again. I
will come back and fetch you--"
"Oh, no, I will go at once. I would like to walk. It will do me good."
So the two set out without further words upon their errand. Mr. Juxon had
purposely omitted to speak of Mr. Booley's arrival. It would be easy, he
thought, to prevent them from meeting in the great house.
"Do you know," said Mary Goddard, as they walked together, "it is very
hard to wish that he may recover--" she stopped short.
"Very hard," answered the squire. "His life must be one of misery, if he
lives."
"Of course you would send him back?" she asked nervously.
"My dear friend, there is no other course open to me. Your own safety
requires it."
"God knows--you would only be doing right," she said and was silent
again. She knew, though the squire did not, what fate awaited Walter
Goddard if he were given up to justice. She knew that he had taken life
and must pay the penalty. Yet she was very calm; her senses were all
dulled and yet her thoughts seemed to be consecutive and rational. She
realised fully that the case of life and death was ill balanced; death
had it which ever course events might take, and she could not save her
husband. She thought of it calmly and calmly hoped that he might die now,
in his bed, with her by his side. It was a better fate.
"You say that the doctor thinks he must have been ill some time?" she
asked after a time.
"Yes--he was quite sure of it," answered the squire.
"Perhaps that was why he spoke so roughly to me," she said in a low
voice, as though speaking to herself.
The tears came into the squire's eyes for sheer pity. Even in this utmost
extremity the unhappy woman tried to account for her husband's rude and
cruel speech. Mr. Juxon did not answer but looked away. They passed the
spot where the scuffle had occurred on the previous night, but still he
said nothing, fearing to disturb her by making his story seem too vividly
real.
"Where is he?" she asked as they reached the Hall, looking up at the
windows.
"On the other side."
They went in and mounted the stairs towards the sick man's chamber. Mr.
Juxon went in, leaving Mrs. Goddard outside for a moment. She could
hear that hideous rattling monotonous moan, and she trembled from head to
foot. Presently Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose came out, looking very grave and
passed by her with a look of sympathy.
"Will you come in?" said the squire in a low voice.
Mrs. Goddard entered the room quickly. On seeing her husband, she uttered
a low cry and laid her hand upon Mr. Juxon's arm. For some seconds she
stood thus, quite motionless, gazing with intense and sympathetic
interest at the sick man's face. Then she went to his side and laid her
hand upon his burning forehead and looked into his eyes.
"Walter! Walter!" she cried. "Don't you know me? Oh, why does he groan
like that? Is he suffering?" she asked turning to Mr. Juxon.
"No--I do not think he suffers much. He is quite unconscious. He is
talking all the time but cannot pronounce the words."
The squire stood at a distance looking on, noting the womanly
thoughtfulness Mrs. Goddard displayed as she smoothed her husband's
pillow and tried to settle his head more comfortably upon the bags of
ice; and all the while she never took her eyes from Goddard's face, as
though she were fascinated by her own sorrow and his suffering. She moved
about the bed with that instinctive understanding of sickness which
belongs to delicate women, but her glance never strayed to Mr. Juxon; she
seemed forced by a mysterious magnetism to look at Walter and only at
him.
"Has he been long like this?" she asked.
"Ever since last night. He called you once--he said, 'Mary Goddard, let
me in!' And then he said something else--he said--I cannot remember what
he said." Mr. Juxon checked himself, remembering the words John had
heard, and of which he only half understood the import. But Mrs. Goddard
hardly noticed his reply.
"Will you leave me alone with him?" she said presently. "There is a bell
in the room--I could ring if anything--happened," she added with mournful
hesitation.
"Certainly," answered the squire. "Only, I beg of you my dear friend--do
not distress yourself needlessly--"
"Needlessly!" she repeated with a sorrowful smile. "It is all I can do
for him--to watch by his side. He will not live--he will not live, I am
sure."
The squire inwardly prayed that she might be right, and left her alone
with the sick man. Who, he thought, was better fitted, who had a stronger
right to be at his bedside at such a time? If only he might die! For if
he lived, how much more terrible would the separation be, when Booley the
detective came to conduct him back to his prison! In truth, it would be
more terrible even than Mr. Juxon imagined.
Meanwhile he must go and see to the rest of the household. He must speak
to John Short; he must see Mr. and Mrs. Ambrose, and he must take
precautions against any of them seeing Mr. Booley. This was, he thought,
very important, and he resolved to speak with the latter first. John was
probably asleep, worn out with the watching of the night.
Mr. Booley sat in the squire's study where he had been left almost an
hour earlier. He had installed himself in a comfortable corner by the
fire and was reading the morning paper which he had found unopened upon
the table. He seemed thoroughly at home as he sat there, a pair of
glasses upon his nose and his feet stretched out towards the flame upon
the hearth.
"Thank you, I am doing very well, Mr. Juxon," he said as the squire
entered.
"Oh--I am very glad," answered Mr. Juxon politely. The information was
wholly voluntary as he had not asked any question concerning the
detective's comfort.
"And how is the patient?" inquired Mr. Booley. "Do you think there is any
chance of removing him this afternoon?"
"This afternoon?" repeated the squire, in some astonishment. "The man is
very ill. It may be weeks before he can be removed."
"Oh!" ejaculated the other. "I was not aware of that. I cannot possibly
stay so long. To-morrow, at the latest, he will have to go."
"But, my dear sir," argued Mr. Juxon, "the thing is quite impossible. The
doctor can testify to that--"
"We are apt to be our own doctors in these cases," said Mr. Booley,
calmly. "At all events he can be taken as far as the county gaol."
"Upon my word, it would be murder to think of it--a man in a brain fever,
in a delirium, to be taken over jolting roads--dear me! It is not to be
thought of!"
Mr. Booley smiled benignly, for the first time since the squire had made
his acquaintance.
"You seem to forget, Mr. Juxon, that my time is very valuable," he
observed.
"Yes--no doubt--but the man's life, Mr. Booley, is valuable too."
"Hardly, I should say," returned the detective coolly. "But since you are
so very pressing, I will ask to see the man at once. I can soon tell you
whether he will die on the road or not. I have had considerable
experience in that line."
"You shall see him, as soon as the doctor comes," replied the squire,
shocked at the man's indifference and hardness.
"It certainly cannot hurt him to see me, if he is still unconscious or
raving," objected Mr. Booley.
"He might have a lucid moment just when you are there--the fright would
very likely kill him."
"That would decide the question of moving him," answered Booley, taking
his glasses from his nose, laying down the paper and rising to his feet.
"There is clearly some reason why you object to my seeing him now. I
would not like to insist, Mr. Juxon, but you must please remember that it
may be my duty to do so."
The squire was beginning to be angry; even his calm temper was not proof
against the annoyance caused by Mr. Booley's appearance at the Hall, but
he wisely controlled himself and resorted to other means of persuasion.
"There is a reason, Mr. Booley; indeed there are several very good
reasons. One of them is that it might be fatal to frighten the man;
another is that at this moment his wife is by his bedside. She has
entirely made up her mind that when he is recovered he must return to
prison, but at present it would be most unkind to let her know that you
are in the house. The shock to her nerves would be terrible."
"Oh," said Mr. Booley, "if there is a lady in the case we must make some
allowances, I presume. Only, put yourself in my place, Mr. Juxon, put
yourself in my place."
The squire doubted whether he would be willing to exchange his
personality for that of Mr. Booley.
"Well--what then?" he said. "I think I would try to be merciful."
"Yes; but suppose that in being merciful, you just allowed that lady the
time necessary to present her beloved husband with a convenient little
pill, just to shorten his sufferings? And suppose that--"
"Really, Mr. Booley, I think you make very unwarrantable suppositions,"
said Mr. Juxon severely. "I cannot suppose any such thing."
"Many women--ladies too--have done that to save a man from hanging,"
returned Mr. Booley, fixing his grey eye on the squire.
"Hanging?" repeated the latter in surprise. "But Goddard is not to be
hanged."
"Of course he is. What did you expect?" Mr. Booley looked surprised in
his turn.
"But--what for?" asked the squire very anxiously. "He has not killed
anybody--"
"Oh--then you don't know how he escaped?"
"No--I have not the least idea--pray tell me."
"I don't wonder you don't understand me, then," said Mr. Booley. "Well,
it is a short tale but a lively one, as they say. Of course it stands to
reason in the first place that he could not have got out of Portland. He
was taken out for a purpose. You know that after his trial was over, all
sorts of other things besides the forgery came out about him, proving
that he was altogether a very bad lot. Now about three weeks ago there
was a question of identifying a certain person--it was a very long story,
with a bad murder case and all the rest of it--commonplace, you know the
sort--never mind the story, it will all be in the papers before long when
they have got it straight, which is more than I have, seeing that these
affairs do get a little complicated occasionally, you know, as such
things will." Mr. Booley paused. It was evident that his command of the
English tongue was not equal to the strain of constructing a long
sentence.
"This person, whom he was to identify, was the person murdered?" inquired
Mr. Juxon.
"Exactly. It was not the person, but the person's body, so to say.
Somebody who had been connected with the Goddard case was sure that if
Goddard could be got out of prison he could do the identifying all
straight. It did not matter about his being under sentence of hard
labour--it was a private case, and the officer only wanted Goddard's
opinion for his personal satisfaction. So he goes to the governor of
Portland, and finds that Goddard had a very good character in that
institution--he was a little bit of a gay deceiver, you see, and knew how
to fetch the chaps in there and particularly the parson. So he had a good
character. Very good. The governor consents to send him to town for this
private job, under a strong force--that means three policemen--with irons
on his hands. When they reached London they put him in a fourwheeler.
Those things are done sometimes, and nobody is the wiser, because the
governor does it on his own responsibility, for the good of the law, I
suppose. I never approved of it. Do you follow me, Mr. Juxon?"
"Perfectly," answered the squire. "He was driven from the station with
three policemen in a hackney-coach, you say."
"Exactly so. It was a queer place where the body was--away down in the
Minories. Ever been there, Mr. Juxon? Queer place it is, and no mistake.
I would like to show you some little bits of London. Well, as I was
saying, the fourwheeler went along, with two policemen inside with
Goddard and one on the box. Safe, you would say. Not a bit of it. Just
the beggar's luck, too. It was dusk. That is always darker than when the
lamps are well going. The fourwheeler ran into a dray-cart, round a
corner where they were repairing the street. The horse went down with a
smash, shafts, lamp, everything broken to smithereens, as they say. The
policeman jumps off the box with the cabby to see what is the matter. One
of the bobbies--the policemen I would say--it's a technical term, Mr.
Juxon--gets out of the cab to see what's up, leaving Goddard in charge of
the other. Then there is a terrific row; more carts come up, more
fourwheelers--everybody swearing at once. Presently the policeman who
had got out comes back and looks in to see if everything is straight. Not
a bit of it again. Other door of the cab was open and--no Goddard. But
the policeman was lying back in the corner and when they struck a light
and looked, they found he was stone dead. Goddard had brained him with
the irons on his wrists. No one ever saw him from that day to this. He
must have known London well--they say he did, and he was a noted quick
runner. Being nightfall and rather foggy as it generally is in those
parts he got clear off. But he killed the man who had him in charge and
if he lives he will have to swing for it. May be Mrs. Goddard does not
know that---may be she does. That is the reason I don't want her to be
left alone with him. No doubt she is very good and all that, but she
might just take it into her head to save the government twenty feet of
rope."
"I am very much surprised, and very much shocked," said the squire
gravely. "I had no idea of this. But I will answer for Mrs. Goddard.
Why was all this never In the papers--or was there an account of it, Mr.
Booley?"
"Oh no--it was never mentioned. We felt sure that we should catch him and
until we did we--I mean the profession--thought it just as well to say
nothing. The governor remembered to have read a letter from Goddard's
wife, just telling him where she was living, about two years ago. Being
harmless, he passed it and never copied the address; then he could not
remember it. At last they found it in his cell, hidden away somehow. The
beggar had kept it."
"Poor fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Juxon. In the silence which followed, the
sound of wheels was heard outside. Doctor Longstreet had arrived.