IN CONFERENCE.
It is nine o'clock in the morning, and breakfast is on the table in
the pretty breakfast-room at Poynings. Mrs. Carruthers presides over
the breakfast-table, and Clare is occupied in arranging some flowers
which have just been sent in by the head gardener--sweet, fresh
flowers, partaking alike of the brightness of spring and the sweetness
of summer, for the April showers have fulfilled their mission, and the
earth is alike glowing and redolent. Through the bow-window, opened in
fear and trembling by Clare before her uncle's appearance, and
hitherto unnoticed by that potentate, who has a vivid dread of
rheumatism, comes a soft air laden with delicious scent of new-mown
grass; for close underneath three men are busily engaged in trimming
the broad lawn, and the sound of their swiftly plied whetstones and
the hum of their talk in their occasional intervals of rest has
penetrated into the room, and makes a kind of human accompaniment to
Mr. Carruthers's strictly unhuman and intonative manner of reading the
morning prayers. Spreading far away, and bordered in the extreme
distance of a sloping shoulder of Surrey down, lies the glorious
Kentish landscape, dotted here and there with broad red-faced
farmsteads and lowly labourers' cots, with vast expanse of green and
springing wheat and hop-grounds, where the parasite has as yet
scarcely taken the tall poles within its pliant embrace, with thick
plantations and high chalk cuttings, over which the steam from the
flying train hangs like a vaporous wreath. In the immediate
neighbourhood of the house the big elm-trees, guarding on either side
the carriage-drive, tossed their high heads and rustled their broad
arms in all the delight of their freshly acquired greenery; dew-bathed
broad upland and mossy knoll sparkle alike in the morning sun; in the
silvery bosom of the little lake the reflection of the slowly-drifting
clouds rears quaint impalpable islands of strange fantastic form;
within the magic square of the old red kitchen-garden wall, where
rusty nails and fragments of last year's list still hung, large
cucumber and melon frames blink in the sunlight, and every little
handlight lends a scintillating ray. Over all hangs a sense of
stillness and composure, of peace and rest and quietude, such as might
bring balm and healing to any wounded spirit.
External influences have, however, very little effect on one of the
persons in the breakfast-room, for Mrs. Carruthers is bodily ill and
mentally depressed. A racking nervous headache has deprived her of
sleep during the past night, and has left its traces in deep livid
marks underneath her eyes. She has a worn-out look and a preoccupied
manner, and while she is superintending the preparation of the Grand
Lama's tea--a process about which he is particular, and which is by no
means to be lightly undertaken--her thoughts are far away, and her
mind is full of doubts and misgiving. Why did her husband come back
so suddenly from the agricultural meeting yesterday? Could be by any
means have been aware of George's presence in the neighbourhood; and,
if so, had he hastened his return with the view of detecting him? If
so, he had providentially been thwarted in his plan. Nurse Ellen had
seen the boy, and had conveyed to him the bracelet; the means of
release from his surrounding difficulties were now in his hands, and
the mother felt sure, from his manner, that he would keep his word,
and never again subject himself to such a fearful risk. All danger
surely must be over; no hint had been dropped by her husband of the
slightest suspicion, and yet Mrs. Carruthers watches every change of
his countenance, listens nervously to every footfall on the stairs,
hears with a heart-beat the creak of every opening door, and is,
obviously, constrained and wretched and ill at ease.
Clare notices this pityingly and with wonder; Mr. Carruthers notices
it too, with wonder, but without any pity, but he resents it, in point
of fact, silently and with dignity. That Mrs. Carruthers of Poynings
should "mope" and be "out of sorts" is a kind of reflection on Mr.
Carruthers of Poynings, which that gentleman by no means approves of.
Over the top of his rustling newspaper he looks at his wife with
severe glances levelled from under knitted brows; between his
occasional bites of toast he gives a short, sharp, irritable cough;
now and then he drums with his fingers on the table, or taps his foot
impatiently on the floor. No notice of these vagaries is taken by
either of the ladies, it being generally understood at Poynings that
the Grand Lama will always find vent in speech when the proper times
arrives. Meanwhile, Mrs. Carruthers moodily broods over the breakfast
equipage, and Clare continues her handiwork with the flowers.
The Grand Lama becomes more and more irate, glares through his gold
double eye-glasses at the newspaper, wherein he is reading atrociously
"levelling" views promulgated by a correspondent, gives utterance to
smothered sounds indicative of indignation and contempt, and is just
about to burst forth in a torrent of rage, when the door opens, and a
footman, entering, hands a card on a salver to his master. As when, in
full pursuit of the flying matador, the bull in the arena wheels round
and engages the lithe picador who has just planted a flag-bearing dart
in his quivering carcass, so Mr. Carruthers turns upon the servant who
had interposed between him and the intended objects of his attack.
"What's this?" said he, in a sharp voice.
"Card, sir," said the footman, utterly unmoved, and with the
complacent expression of an ancient gurgoyle on a Saxon church.
"Do you think I'm blind?" said his master. "I see it's a card. Where
did it come from?"
"Gentleman in the library, sir. Said you was at breakfast; told me no
'urry, and giv' me his card."
Mr. Carruthers looks up suspiciously at Thomas footman, but Thomas
footman is still gurgoylesque. Then Mr. Carruthers replaces his
eye-glasses, and, looking at the card, reads thereon, in old English
characters, "Mr. Dalrymple," and in pencil the words "Home Office." "I
will be with the gentleman in a moment." Only stopping at the
looking-glass to run his fingers through his hair and to settle the
tie of his checked cravat, Mr. Carruthers creaks out of the room.
Mr. Dalrymple, of the Home Office, has established himself in a
comfortable chair, from which he rises on Mr. Carruthers's entrance.
He is a tall, bald-headed man, and, to Mr. Carruthers's horror, wears
a full-flowing brown beard. The Grand Lama, whose ideas on this point
are out of date, knows that beards are now generally worn by members
of the aristocracy as well as foreigners and billiard-sharpers, but
cannot conceive that any government has been so preposterously lax as
to permit its officials to indulge in such nonsense. Consequently he
refers to the card again, and, his first impressions being verified,
is dumb with astonishment. Nevertheless, he controls his feelings
sufficiently to bow and to point to a chair.
"I am an early visitor, Mr. Carruthers," says Mr. Dalrymple, "but the
fact is, my business is pressing. I came down to Amherst by the mail
train last night, but I would not disturb you at so late an hour, and,
moreover, I could have done no good by seeing you then; so I slept at
the inn. My visit to you is on business, as I presume you understand?"
Mr. Dalrymple says this pointedly, as the Grand Lama's face is rapidly
assuming an open mouth and sunken jaw expression of idiotcy. He
recovers himself by an effort, and, glancing at the card, mutters
"Home Office."
"Precisely," says Mr. Dalrymple. "I am a principal clerk in the Home
Office, and I come to you in your capacity as justice of the peace.
Lord Wolstenholme, our Secretary, noticed that you generally acted as
chairman of the bench of magistrates, and therefore decided that you
were the proper person to be communicated with."
Mr. Carruthers's attention, which has been wandering a little--his
eyes are still attracted by his visitor's beard, and he is wondering
how long it has been growing, and why it should be, as it is, of two
distinct shades of brown--is recalled by these words, and he mutters
that he is obliged to his lordship for his opinion.
"Now, my dear Mr. Carruthers," says Mr. Dalrymple, bending forward in
his chair, dropping his voice to a whisper, and looking slyly from
under his bushy eyebrows, "will you allow me to ask you a question?
Can you keep a secret?"
Mr. Carruthers is taken aback. From his magisterial and
country-gentleman position he looks upon secrets as things exclusively
appertaining to the vulgar, as connected with conspiracies, plots,
swindles, and other indictable offences. Considering, however, that
the matter is brought under his notice in connection with the Home
Office, he thinks he may venture to answer in the affirmative, and
does accordingly.
"Ex-actly," says Mr. Dalrymple. "I knew your answer before I put the
question; but in these little matters it is absolutely necessary to
have perfect accuracy. Now then to the point--we are quite out of
earshot? Thank you! No chance of any one listening at the doors?"
Mr. Carruthers says "No," with an expression of face which says he
should very much like to catch any one there.
"Pre-cisely! Now, my dear Mr. Carruthers, I will at once put you in
possession of Lord Wolstenholme's views. The fact is, that a murder
has been committed, under rather peculiar circumstances, and his
lordship wants your assistance in investigating the matter."
Mr. Carruthers is all attention in an instant. Every trace of
preoccupation has vanished. His visitor's beard has no kind of
attraction for him now, though it is wagging close before his eyes. A
murder! The worst case he had ever investigated was a doubtful
manslaughter arising out of a poaching affray, and for his remarks on
that he had been highly complimented in the local press; but here is
murder--and his aid is enlisted by the Home Office!
"The facts of the case," continues Mr. Dalrymple, "are shortly these.
A body of a man is seen floating off Paul's Wharf, and is hooked up by
one of the men attached to the steam-boat pier there. It is taken to
the police station to be examined, and is then found to have been
stabbed to the heart with a sharp instrument, and by a strong and
clever hand. The pockets are empty, the studs have been taken from
the shirt, and there is no token, pocket-book, or anything to
establish its identity. 'Ordinary case enough,' you'll say, with your
experience; 'ordinary case enough--drunken man decoyed into some
water-side ken, robbed, and made away with--case for the police--why
Lord Wolstenholme and the Home Office?' You would say that, my dear
sir, influenced by your ordinary perspicacity; but I answer your
'Why.' From the appearance of this man's body it is plain that he was
not an Englishman; his clothes are not of English cut, and he had on a
huge fur-lined overcoat, with a deep hood, such as no Englishman ever
wears. When this description was sent to us, Lord Wolstenholme at once
referred to a private correspondence which we have had with the French
embassy in relation to some of the Second-of-December exiles who are
now sheltered under the British flag, and we came to the conclusion
that this was no common murder for purposes of plunder, but an act of
political vengeance. Now, my dear sir, you will perceive that to
penetrate a mystery of this kind is of the greatest political
importance, and consequently his lordship took the matter up at once,
and set every engine we have at work to elucidate it. The result of
our inquiries proves that the whole chance of identification rests
upon a question of coats. The last person by whom, so far as we know,
the wearer of the fur-lined coat was seen alive is a waiter at a
tavern in the Strand, who distinctly recollects the murdered man,
whose dress he described very fully, being particularly positive about
his jewelry--diamond studs, real, no 'duffers,' as he said, and of
which there is no trace to be found--having dined at his eating-house,
in company with another man, who had with him a blue Witney overcoat,
on the inside of which was a label bearing the name of some tailor,
Ewart or Evans, he is unable to state which, residing at Amherst."
"Good God!" said Mr. Carruthers, surprised out of his usual reticence.
"Evans--I know the man well!"
"Very likely!" says Mr. Dalrymple, composedly. "Evans! The waiter has
been had up, cross-questioned, turned inside out, but still adheres to
his story. Now, as we imagine this to be a bit of political vengeance,
and not an ordinary crime, and as the detectives (capital fellows in
their way) have had their heads a little turned since they've been
made novel heroes of, Lord Wolstenholme thought it better that I
should come down into the neighbourhood of Amherst, and with your
assistance try to find out where and by whom this coat was bought."
No hesitation now on Mr. Carruthers's part; he and the Home Office are
colleagues in this affair. Lord Wolstenholme has shown his sagacity in
picking out the active and intelligent magistrate of the district, and
he shall see that his confidence is not misplaced. Will Mr. Dalrymple
breakfast? Mr. Dalrymple has breakfasted; then a message is sent to
Mrs. Carruthers to say that Mr. Carruthers presumes he _may_ say that
Mr. Dalrymple, a gentleman from London, will join them at dinner? Mr.
Dalrymple will be delighted, so long as he catches the up mail-train
at Amherst at--what is it?--nine fifteen. Mr. Carruthers pledges his
word that Mr. Dalrymple shall be in time, and orders the barouche
round at once. Will Mr. Dalrymple excuse Mr. Carruthers for five
minutes? Mr. Dalrymple will; and Mr. Carruthers goes to his
dressing-room, while Mr. Dalrymple re-ensconces himself in the big
arm-chair, and devotes his period of solitude to paring his nails and
whistling softly the while.
The big, heavy, swinging barouche, only used on solemn occasions, such
as state visits, Sunday church-goings, and magisterial sittings, drawn
by the two big grays, and driven by Gibson, coachman, in his silver
wig, his stiff collar, and his bright top-boots, and escorted by
Thomas, footman, in all the bloom of blue-and-silver livery and drab
gaiters, comes round to the front door, and the gentlemen take their
places in it and are driven off. The three gardeners mowing the lawn
perform Hindooish obeisances as the carriage passes them; obeisances
acknowledged by Mr. Carruthers with a fore-finger lifted to the brim
of his hat, as modelled on a portrait of the late Duke of Wellington.
Bulger at the lodge gates pulls his forelock, and receives the same
gracious return, Mr. Carruthers all the time bristling with the sense
of his own importance, and inwardly wishing that he could tell
gardeners, lodge-keeper, and every one they met that his companion had
come from the Home Office, and that they were about together to
investigate a most important case of murder. Mr. Dalrymple, on the
contrary, seems to have forgotten all about the actual business under
treatment, and might be a friend come on a few days' visit. He admires
the scenery, asks about the shooting, gives his opinion on the rising
crops, talks of the politics rife in the neighbourhood, showing, by
the way, a keen knowledge of their details, and never for an instant
refers to the object of their inquiry until they are nearing the town,
when he suggests that they had better alight short of their
destination, and proceed on foot there. There is no particular reason
for this, as probably Mr. Dalrymple knows; but he has never yet
pursued an official and mysterious investigation in a barouche, and it
seems to him an abnormal proceeding. So Mr. Carruthers, deferring in a
courtly manner to his visitor's wishes, but, at the same time, walking
beside him as though he had him in charge, they alight from the
carriage, bidding the servant to wait, and walk into the town,
directing their steps towards Evans, tailor. Evans, tailor, coatless,
as is his wont, and with his thumbs stuck in the arm-holes of his
waistcoat, is standing at his door, and greets Mr. Carruthers with as
much bow as is possible to his stout figure. Could they speak to him
for a moment? by all manner of means; will Mr. Carruthers walk into
the back shop? where Miss Evans, a buxom girl with many shaking curls,
is discovered working a pair of Berlin-wool slippers, at a glance too
small for her father, and is put to flight with much blushing and
giggling. The two gentlemen seat themselves in the old-fashioned
black-horsehair chairs, and Mr. Evans, a little excited, stands by
them with his thumbs in his arm-holes, and flaps his hands
occasionally, as though they were fins. "This gentleman, Mr. Evans,"
says Mr. Carruthers, giving this happy specimen of his acumen and
discretion in a loud and pompous tone--"has come from Lord
Wolstenholme, the Secretary of State for the Home Department." Mr.
Evans gives a fin-flap, indicative of profound respect. "He has been
sent here to--"
"Will you permit me in the very mildest manner to interrupt you, my
dear sir?" says Mr. Dalrymple, in dulcet accents. "You put the matter
admirably from the magisterial point of view--but perhaps if I were
just to-- You have no objection? Thank you! You've lived a long time
in Amherst, Mr. Evans?"
"I've been a master tailor here, sir, forty-three years last
Michaelmas."
"Forty-three years! Long time, indeed! And you're the tailor of the
neighbourhood, eh?"
"Well, sir, I think I may say we make for all the gentry round--Mr.
Carruthers of Poynings, sir, and Sir Thomas Boldero, and--"
"Of course--of course! You've a gold-printed label, I think, which you
generally sew on to all goods made by you?"
"We have, sir--that same. With my name upon it."
"With your name upon it. Just so! Now, I suppose that label is never
sewed on to anything which has not been either made or sold by you?"
"Which has not been made, sir! We don't sell anything except our own
make--Evans of Amherst don't."
"Exactly; and very proper too." To Mr. Carruthers: "Settles one point,
my dear sir--must have been made here! Now, Mr. Evans, you make all
sorts of coats, of course, blue Witney overcoats among the number?"
Mr. Evans, after a hesitating fin-flap, says: "A blue Witney overcoat,
sir, is an article seldom if ever called for in these parts. I
shouldn't say we'd made one within the last two years--leastways, more
than one."
"But you think you did make one?"
"There were one, sir, made to order from a party that was staying at
the Lion."
"Staying at the Lion? The inn, of course, where I slept last night.
How long ago was that?"
"That were two years ago, sir."
"That won't do!" cries Mr. Dalrymple, in disappointed tone.
"Two years ago that it were made and that the party was at the Lion.
The coat was sold less than three months ago."
"Was it? To whom?"
"To a stranger--a slim young gent who came in here one day
promiscuous, and wanted an overcoat. He had that blue Witney, he had!"
"Now, my dear Mr. Evans," says Mr. Dalrymple, laying his hand lightly
on Mr. Evans's shirt-sleeve, and looking up from under his bushy brows
into the old man's face, "just try and exercise your memory a little
about this stranger. Give us a little more description of him--his
age, height, general appearance, and that sort of thing!"
But Mr. Evans's memory is quite unaccustomed to exercise, and cannot
be jogged, or ensnared, or bullied into any kind of action. The
stranger was young, "middling height," appearance, "well, gen-teel and
slim-like;" and wild horses could not extract further particulars from
Mr. Evans than these. Stay. "What did he give for the coat, and in
what money did he pay for it?" There's a chance. Mr. Evans remembers
that he "gev fifty-three-and-six for the overcoat, and handed in a
ten-pun' note for change." A ten-pound note, which, as Mr. Evans,
by a further tremendous effort, recollects, had "the stamp of our
post-office on it, as I pinted out to the gent at the time." Was the
note there? No; Mr. Evans had paid it into the County Bank to his
little account with some other money, but he quite recollected the
post-office stamp being on it.
Mr. Carruthers thinks this a great point, but is dashed by Mr.
Dalrymple's telling him, on their way from the tailor's, that all
bank-notes passing through post-offices received the official stamp.
This statement is corroborated at the Amherst post-office, where no
money-order of that amount, or of anything equivalent to that amount,
has been recently paid, the remittances in that form being, as the
postmaster explains, generally to the canal boatmen or the railway
people, and of small value.
So there the clue fails suddenly and entirely, and Mr. Carruthers and
Mr. Dalrymple again mount the big swinging barouche and are driven
back to Poynings to dinner, which meal is not, however, graced by the
presence of either of the ladies; for Mrs. Carruthers is too ill to
leave her room, and Clare is in attendance on her. So the gentlemen
eat a solemn dinner by themselves, and talk a solemn conversation; and
at eight o'clock Mr. Dalrymple goes away, driven by Gibson, coachman,
in the carriage, and turning over in his mind how best to make
something out of the uneventful day for the information of the Home
Secretary.
That dignitary occupies also much of the attention of Mr. Carruthers,
left in dignified solitude in the dining-room before the decanters of
wine and the dishes of fruit, oblivious of his wife's indisposition,
and wholly unobservant of the curiosity with which Mr. Downing, his
butler and body-servant, surveys him on entering the room to suggest
the taking of tea. Very unusual is it for the Poynings servants to
regard their master with curiosity, or indeed with any feeling that
bears the semblance of interest; but, be the cause what it may, there
is no mistaking the present expression of Downing's face. Surprise,
curiosity, and something which, if it must be called fear, is the
pleasant and excited form of that feeling, prompt Mr. Downing to look
fixedly at his master, who sits back in his chair in an attitude of
magisterial cogitation, twirling his heavy gold eye-glass in his bony
white hands, and lost in something which resembles thought more
closely than Mr. Carruthers's mental occupation can ordinarily be said
to do. There he sits, until he resolves to take his niece Clare into
confidence, tell her of the visit he has received from the gentleman
from the Home Office, and ask her whether she can make anything of it,
which resolution attained, and finding by his watch that the hour is
half-past ten, and that therefore a Carruthers of Poynings may retire
to rest if he chooses without indecorum, the worthy gentleman creaks
upstairs to his room, and in a few minutes is sleeping the sleep of
the just. Mrs. Carruthers--Clare having been some time previously
dismissed from the room--also seems to sleep soundly; at least her
husband has seen that her eyes are closed.
Her rest, real or pretended, would have been none the calmer had she
been able to see her faithful old servant pacing up and down the
housekeeper's room, and wringing her withered hands in an agony of
distress; for the servant who had gone to Amherst with Mr. Carruthers
and his mysterious visitor in the morning had learned the meaning and
purpose of the two gentlemen's visit to Evans, the tailor, and had
made it the subject of a lively and sentimental conversation in the
servants' hall. Although literature was not in a very flourishing
condition at Amherst, the male domestics of the household at Poynings
were not without their sources of information, and had thoroughly
possessed themselves of the details of the murder.
Mrs. Brookes had heard of the occurrence two or three times in the
course of the preceding day, but she had given it little attention.
She was in her own room when the servants returned with the carriage
which had taken Mr. Dalrymple to the railway station, having visited
her mistress for the last time that evening, and was thinking, sadly
enough, of George, when the entrance of the upper housemaid, her eager
face brimful of news, disturbed her.
"Oh, Mrs. Brookes," she began, "do you know who that gentleman was as
dined here, and went to the town with master?"
"No, I don't," said Mrs. Brookes, with some curiosity; "do you?"
"Not exactly; but Thomas says Home Office were wrote on his card, and
Home Office has something to do with finding people out when they've
been a-doing anything."
Mrs. Brookes began to feel uncomfortable.
"What do you mean?" she said. "Who's been doing anything that wants
finding out?"
"Nobody as I knows," replied Martha, looking knowing and mysterious.
"Only, you know, that murder as Mr. Downing read us the inquest of,
and how it's a foreigner as has been killed because he wouldn't help
to blow up the King of France; at least, there's something of that in
it. Well, Mr. Downing thinks as the gentleman come about that."
"About that, _here?_" said Mrs. Brookes. "Whatever has put such a
notion into Mr. Downing's head as that?"
"Well, Mrs. Brookes, this is it: they're all talking about it in the
hall, and so I thought I'd just come and tell you. Master and the
stranger gentleman didn't take the carriage right on into town; they
got just inside the pike, and went on by themselves; and, when they
came back, master, he looked very red and grand-looking, and the
strange gentleman he looked as if he was rare disappointed and put
out, and, as he was a-shutting the door of the b'rouche, Thomas heard
him saying, 'No, no; there's nothing more to be done. Evans was our
only chance, and he's no use.' So nat'rally Thomas wonders whatever
they've been about, and what was their business with Evans; so he and
coachman wasn't sorry this evening when the strange gentleman was gone
by the train, and they see Evans a-loungin' about, a-flapping his
hands, which he's always doing of it, up by the station. He were
lookin' at the strange gentleman as sharp as sharp, as they drove up
to the bookin'-office; and when they came out, there he were, and
Evans tells 'em all about it."
"All about _what?_" asks Mrs. Brookes sharply.
"All about what brought master and the other gentleman to his shop;
and it's his belief, as master said more than the other gentleman
wanted him to say; for master let out as how a murder had something to
do with the business."
"What business, Martha? Do tell me what you mean, if you want me to
listen to you any longer. How could Mr. Carruthers want to know
anything from Evans about a murder?"
"Lor', ma'am, it weren't about the murder; it were about the coat!
Master told Evans as how there had been a murder, and the other
gentleman took master up rather shorter, Evans thinks, than master is
accustomed to be took, and asked him no end of questions--did he make
such and such coats? and who did he sell 'em to? and particular did
he sell Witney coats? which Mr. Evans said he didn't in general, and
had only sold one in two years, which the strange gentleman wanted
to know what sort of gent had had it, and were he young or old, or
good-looking or or'nary, and a mort of questions; wherein Evans
answered him to the best of his ability, but, being a man of his word,
he couldn't make it no clearer than he could."
"What _did_ he make clear?" asked Mrs. Brookes. "Two years is a long
time to remember the sale of a coat."
"It wasn't so long since it were sold. Mr. Evans sold it six weeks
ago, but it were two years made."
Mrs. Brookes's heart gave a great bound, and her old eyes grew dim;
but she was a brave woman, and Martha, housemaid, was a dull one.
"Did Mr. Evans not succeed in describing the person who bought the
coat, then?"
"He thinks not; but he says he should know him again immediate, if he
saw him. The strange gentleman didn't seem overpleased that his memory
was so short; but lor', who's to know all about the eyeses and the
noses of everybody as comes to buy a coat, or what not?--partic'lar if
you don't know as he's been a committen of a murder. If you did, why,
you'd look at him closer like, _I_ should say!"
"Has Mr. Downing got the paper with the murder of the foreigner in
it?" asked Mrs. Brookes.
"Yes, he have; he's just been reading it all over again in the hall.
And he says as how master's in a brown study, as he calls it; only
it's in the dining-room, and he's sure as the finding-out people has
put it into his hands."
"When he has done with the paper, ask him to let me see it, Martha.
Very likely this stranger's visit has nothing to do with the matter.
Downing finds out things that nobody else can see."
Martha was an admirer and partisan of Mr. Downing, from the humble and
discreet distance which divides a housemaid from a butler, and she did
not like to hear his discretion aspersed.
"It looks as if he was right this time, however," she replied; "though
it wasn't Tim the tinker as stole Sir Thomas's spoons, which Mr.
Downing never had a good opinion of him; but when there ain't nothing
clearer than the person who was seen at the eating-house with the
victim" (Martha "took in" the _Hatchet of Horror_ every week, and
framed her language on that delightful model) "had on a coat as Evans
made, it looks as if he wasn't altogether in the wrong, now don't it,
Mrs. Brookes?"
Mrs. Brookes could not deny that it looked very like that
complimentary conclusion, and her brave old heart almost died within
her. But she kept down her fear and horror, and dismissed Martha,
telling her to bring her the paper as soon as she could. The woman
returned in a few moments, laid the newspaper beside Mrs. Brookes, and
then went off to enjoy a continuation of the gossip of the servants'
hall. Very exciting and delightful that gossip was, for though the
servants had no inkling of the terribly strong interest, the awfully
near connection, which existed for Poynings in the matter, it was
still a great privilege to be "in" so important an affair by even the
slender link formed by the probable purchase of a coat at Amherst by
the murderer. They enjoyed it mightily; they discussed it over and
over again, assigning to the murdered man every grade of rank short
of royalty, and all the virtues possible to human nature. The
women were particularly eloquent and sympathizing, and Martha "quite
cried," as she speculated on the great probability of there being a
broken-hearted sweetheart in the case.
In the housekeeper's room, Mrs. Brookes sat poring over the terrible
story, to which she had listened carelessly on the previous day, as
the servants talked it vaguely over. From the first words Martha had
spoken, her fears had arisen, and now they were growing every instant
to the terrible certainty of conviction. What if the wretched young
man, who had already been the cause of so much misery, had added this
fearful crime to the long catalogue of his follies and sins?
All the household sleeps, and the silence of the night is in every
room but one. There Mrs. Brookes still sits by the table with the
newspaper spread before her, lost in a labyrinth of fear and anguish;
and from time to time her grief finds words, such as:
"How shall I tell her? How shall I warn her? O George, George! O my
boy! my boy!"