I'd never seen such a scene before; I have not seen one since. Perhaps,
in fact, the same thing had never happened.
What had done it nobody could imagine. It was as if the place had been
smoked out with some deleterious stuff; some destructive or poisoning
gases, fatal to vegetable life.
On the previous day but one, Tuesday, there had been a party at the
Manor. Squire and Mrs. Todhetley did not go in for much of that kind of
thing, but some girls from London were staying with the Jacobsons, and
we all went over to a dance there on the Friday. After supper some of
them got talking to Mrs. Todhetley, asking in a laughing sort of way why
_she_ did not give them one? she shook her head, and answered that we
were quiet people. Upon that Tod spoke up, and said he had no doubt the
Squire would give one if asked; would like to do it. Had Mrs. Todhetley
gone heartily into the proposal at once, Tod would have thrown cold
water on it. That was his obstinacy. The girls attacked the Squire, and
the thing was settled; the dance being fixed for the following Tuesday.
I know Mrs. Todhetley thought it an awful trouble; the Squire openly
said it was when we got home; and he grumbled all day on Saturday. You
see, our servants were not used to fashionable parties; neither in
truth were their masters. However, if it had to be done at all, it was
to be done well. The laundry was cleared out for dancing; the old square
ironing-stove taken away, and a few pictures were done round with
wreaths of green and hung on the yellow-washed walls. The supper-table
was laid in the dining-room; leaving the drawing-room free for
reception.
It was the Squire thought of having the plants brought into the hall.
He never could say afterwards it was anybody but him. His grumbling
was got over by the Tuesday morning, and he was as eager as any of us.
He went about in his open nankeen coat and straw hat, puffing and
blowing, and saying he hoped we should relish it--_he_ wouldn't dance
in the dog-days.
"I should like to see you dance in any days now, sir," cried Tod.
"You impudent rascals! You must laugh, too, must you, Johnny! I can tell
you young fellows what--you'll neither of you dance a country dance as
we'd used to do it. You should have seen us at the wake. Once when we
militia chaps were at the Ram, at Gloucester, for a week's training, we
gave a ball there, and footed it till daylight. 'We bucks at the Ram;'
that's what we called ourselves: but most of us are dead and gone now.
Look here, boys," continued the pater after a pause, "I'll have the
choice plants brought into the hall. If we knock up a few sconces for
candles on the walls, their colours will show out well."
He went out to talk to Roger Monk about it. Mrs. Todhetley was in the
kitchen over the creams and jellies and things, fit to faint with heat.
Jenkins, the head-gardener was back then, but he was stiff yet, not
likely to be of permanent good; so Roger Monk was kept on as chief.
Under the pater's direction the sets of green steps were brought in and
put on either side of the hall, as many sets as there was space for; and
the plants were arranged upon them.
I'd tell you the different sorts but that you might think it tedious.
They were choice and beautiful. Mr. Todhetley took pride in his flowers,
and spared no expense. Geraniums of all colours, tulips, brilliant
roses, the white lily and the purple iris; and the rarer flowers, with
hard names that nobody can spell. It was like a lovely garden, rising
tier upon tier; a grove of perfume that the guests would pass through.
They managed the wax-lights well; and the colours, pink, white, violet,
green, orange, purple, scarlet, blue, shone out as the old east window
in Worcester Cathedral used to do when it sparkled in the morning sun.
It went off first-rate. Some of the supper sweet dishes fell out of
shape with the heat; but they were just as good to eat. In London,
the thing you call "society" is made up of form and coldness, and
artificialism; with us county people it is honest openness. There, any
failure on the table is looked away from, not supposed to be seen; at
the supper at Squire Todhetley's the tumble-down dishes were introduced
as a topic of regret. "And to think it should be so, after all the pains
I bestowed on them!" added Mrs. Todhetley, not hesitating to say that
she had been the confectioner and pastry-cook.
But it is not of the party I have to tell you. It was jolly; and
everyone said what a prime ball-room the laundry made. I dare say if we
had been London fashionables we should have called it the "library," and
made believe we'd had the books taken out.
Getting ready for company is delightful; but putting things to rights
the next day is rather another thing. The plants were carried back
to their places again in the greenhouse--a large, long, commodious
greenhouse--and appeared none the worse for their show. The old folks,
whose dancing-days were over, had spent half the night in the cool hall,
admiring these beautiful plants; and the pater told this to Roger Monk
as he stood with him in the greenhouse after they were put back. I was
there, too.
"I'm glad they were admired, sir," said Monk in answer. "I've taken
pains with them, and I think they do the Manor credit."
"Well, truth to say, Monk, it's a better and brighter collection than
Jenkins ever got. But you must not tell him I say so. I do take a pride
in my greenhouse; my father did before me. I remember your mother
spending a day here once, Johnny, before you were born, and she said of
all the collections in the two counties of Warwick and Worcester, ours
was the finest. It came up to Lord Coventry's; not as large, of course,
but the plants in the same prime condition."
"Yes, sir: I've seen the conservatories at Croome," returned Monk, who
generally went in for large names.
"The late Lord Coventry--Yes! Here! Who's calling?"
Tod's voice outside, shouting for the Squire, caused the break. He had
got Mr. Duffham with him; who wanted to ask about some parish business;
and they came to the greenhouse.
So that made another admirer. Old Duff turned himself and his cane
about, saying the colours looked brighter by daylight than waxlight; and
he had not thought it possible the night before that they could do it.
He stole a piece of geranium to put in his button-hole.
"By the way, Monk, when are you going over to Evesham about those seeds
and things?" asked the Squire, as he was departing with old Duff.
"I can go when you like, sir."
"Go to-morrow, then. Start with the cool of the morning. Jenkins can do
what has to be done, for once. You had better take the light cart."
"Very well, sir," answered Monk. But he had never once looked in the
Squire's face as he answered.
The next morning was Thursday. Tod and I were up betimes to go fishing.
There was a capital stream--but I've not time for that now. It was
striking six as we went out of the house, and the first thing I saw was
Jenkins coming along, his face as white as a sheet. He was a big man
once, of middle height, but thin and stooping since his last bout of
rheumatism; grey whiskers, blue eyes, and close upon fifty.
"I say, Tod, look at old Jenkins! He must be ill again."
Not ill but frightened. His lips were of a bluey grey, like one whom
some great terror has scared. Tod stared as he came nearer, for they
were trembling as well as blue.
"What's up, Jenkins?"
"I don't know what, Mr. Joe. The devil has been at work."
"Whereabouts?" asked Tod.
"Come and see, sir."
He turned back towards the greenhouse, but not another word would he
say, only pointed to it. Leaving the fishing-rods on the path, we set
off to run.
Never had I seen such a scene before; as I told you at the beginning.
The windows were shut, every crevice where a breath of air might enter
seemed to be hermetically closed; a smell as of some sulphurous acid
pervaded the air; and the whole show of plants had turned to ruin.
A wreck complete. Colour was gone; leaves and stems were gone; the sweet
perfume was gone; nothing remained, so to say, but the pots. It was as
if some burning blast had passed through the greenhouse, withering to
death every plant that stood in it, and the ripening grapes above.
"What on earth can have done this?" cried Tod to Jenkins, when he was
able to speak.
"Well, Mr. Joseph, I say nothing _could_ have done it but the----"
"Don't talk rubbish about the devil, Jenkins. He does not work in quite
so practical a way. Open the windows."
"I was on by half-past five, sir, not coming here at first, but----"
"Where's Monk this morning?" again interrupted Tod, who had turned
imperative.
"The Squire sent him over to Evesham for the seeds. I heard him go by in
the light cart."
"Sent him when?"
"Yesterday, I suppose; that is, told him to go. Monk came to me last
evening and said I must be on early. He started betimes; it was long
afore five when I heard the cart go by. I should know the rattle of that
there light cart anywhere, Mr. Joe."
"Never mind the cart. What has done _this_?"
That was the question. What had done it? Some blasting poison must have
been set to burn in the greenhouse. Such substances might be common
enough, but we knew nothing of them. We examined the place pretty
carefully, but not a trace of any proof was discovered.
"What's this?" cried out Jenkins, presently.
Some earthenware pot-stands were stacked on the ground at the far end of
the greenhouse--Mrs. Todhetley always called them saucers--Jenkins had
been taking two or three of the top ones off, and came upon one that
contained a small portion of some soft, white, damp substance, smelling
just like the smell that pervaded the greenhouse--a suffocating smell
that choked you. Some sulphuric acid was in the tool-house; Tod fetched
the bottle, poured a little on the stuff, and set it alight.
Instantly a white smoke arose, and a smell that sent us off. Jenkins,
looking at it as if it were alive and going to bite him, carried it at
arm's length out to the nearest bed, and heaped mould upon it.
"That has done it, Mr. Joseph. But I should like to know what the white
stuff is. It's some subtle poison."
We took the stack of pot-stands off one by one. Six or eight of them
were perfectly clean, as if just wiped out. Jenkins gave his opinion
again.
"Them clean saucers have all had the stuff burning in 'em this night,
and they've done their work well. Somebody, which it must be the villain
himself, has been in and cleaned 'em out, overlooking one of 'em. I can
be upon my word the stands were all dusty enough last Tuesday, when the
greenhouse was emptied for the ball, for I stacked 'em myself one upon
another."
Tod took up his perch on the edge of the shut-in brick stove, and
surveyed the wreck. There was not a bit of green life remaining, not a
semblance of it. When he had done looking he stared at me, then at
Jenkins; it was his way when puzzled or perplexed.
"Have you seen anybody about here this morning, Jenkins?"
"Not a soul," responded Jenkins, ruefully. "I was about the beds and
places at first, and when I came up here and opened the door, the smoke
and smell knocked me back'ards. When I see the plants--leastways what
was the plants--with their leaves and blossoms and stems all black and
blasted, I says to myself, 'The devil must have been in here;' and I was
on my way to tell the master so when you two young gents met me."
"But it's time some of them were about," cried Tod. "Where's Drew? Is he
not come?"
"Drew be hanged for a lazy vagabond!" retorted old Jenkins. "He never
comes on much afore seven, he doesn't. Monk threatened last week to get
his wages stopped for him. I did stop 'em once, afore I was ill."
Drew was the under-gardener, an active young fellow of nineteen. There
was a boy as well, but it happened that he was away just now. Almost as
Jenkins spoke, Drew came in view, leaping along furiously towards the
vegetable garden, as though he knew he was late.
"Halloa, Drew!"
He recognized Tod's voice, turned, and came into the greenhouse. His
look of amazement would have made a picture.
"Sakes alive! Jenkins, what have done this?"
"Do you know anything about it, Drew?" asked Tod.
"Me, sir?" answered Drew, turning his wide-open eyes on Tod, in surprise
at the question. "I don't as much as know what it _is_."
"Mr. Joe, I think the master ought to be told of this," said Jenkins.
"As well get it over."
He meant the explosion of wrath that was sure to come when the Squire
saw the ravages. Tod never stirred. Who was to tell him? It was like the
mice proposing to bell the cat: nobody offered to do it.
"You go, Johnny," said Tod, by-and-by. "Perhaps he's getting up now."
I went. I always did what he ordered me, and heard Mrs. Todhetley in her
dressing-room. She had her white petticoats on, doing her hair. When I
told her, she just backed into a chair and turned as white as Jenkins.
"What's that, Johnny?" roared out the Squire from his bed. I hadn't
noticed that the door between the rooms was open.
"Something is wrong in the greenhouse, sir."
"Something wrong in the greenhouse! What d'ye mean, lad?"
"He says the plants are spoiled, and the grapes," interrupted Mrs.
Todhetley, to help me.
"Plants and grapes spoiled! You must be out of your senses, Johnny, to
say such a thing. What has spoiled them?"
"It looks like some--blight," I answered, pitching upon the word.
"Everything's dead and blackened."
Downstairs I rushed for fear he should ask more. And down came the pater
after me, hardly anything on, so to say; not shaved, and his nankeen
coat flying behind him.
I let him go on to get the burst over. When I reached them, they were
talking about the key. It was customary for the head-gardener to lock
the greenhouse at night. For the past month or so there had been, as may
be said, two head-gardeners, and the key had been left on the ledge at
the back of the greenhouse, that whichever of them came on first in the
morning might get in.
The Squire stormed at this--with that scene before his eyes he was ready
to storm at everything. Pretty gardeners, they were! leaving the key
where any tramp, hiding about the premises for a night's lodging, might
get into the greenhouse and steal what he chose! As good leave the key
in the door, as hang it up outside it! The world had nothing but fools
in it, as he believed.
Jenkins answered with deprecation. The key was not likely to be found
by anybody but those that knew where to look for it. It always had a
flower-pot turned down upon it; and so he had found it that morning.
"If all the tramps within ten miles got into the greenhouse, sir, they'd
not do this," affirmed Tod.
"Hold your tongue," said the Squire; "what do you know about tramps?
I've known them to do the wickedest things conceivable. My beautiful
plants! And look at the grapes! I've never had a finer crop of grapes
than this was, Jenkins," concluded the pater, in a culminating access
of rage. "If I find this has arisen through any neglect of yours and
Monk's, I'll--I'll hang you both."
The morning went on; breakfast was over, and the news of the strange
calamity spread. Old Jones, the constable, had been sent for by the
Squire. He stared, and exclaimed, and made his comments; but he was not
any the nearer hitting upon the guilty man.
About ten, Roger Monk got home from Evesham. We heard the spring-cart go
round to the stables, and presently he appeared in the gardens, looking
at objects on either side of the path, as was his usual wont. Then he
caught sight of us, standing in and about the greenhouse, and came on
faster. Jenkins was telling the story of his discovery to Mr. Duffham.
He had told it a good fifty times since early morning to as many
different listeners.
They made way for Monk to come in, nobody saying a word. The pater stood
inside, and Monk, touching his hat, was about to report to him of his
journey, when the strange aspect of affairs seemed to strike him dumb.
He looked round with a sort of startled gaze at the walls, at the glass
and grapes above, at the destroyed plants, and then turned savagely on
Jenkins, speaking hoarsely.
"What have you been up to here?"
"_Me_ been up to! That's good, that is! What had _you_, been up to
afore you went off? You had the first chance. Come, Mr. Monk."
The semi-accusation was spoken by Jenkins on the spur of the moment, in
his anger at the other's words. Monk was in a degree Jenkins's protégé,
and it had not previously occurred to him that _he_ could be in any way
to blame.
"What do you know of this wicked business, Monk?" asked the Squire.
"What should I know of it, sir? I have only just come in from Evesham.
The things were all right last night."
"How did you leave the greenhouse last night?"
"Exactly as I always leave it, sir. There was nothing the matter with it
then. Drew--I saw him outside, didn't I? Step here, Drew. You were with
me when I locked up the greenhouse last night. Did you see anything
wrong with it?"
"It were right enough then," answered Drew.
Monk turned himself about, lifting his hands in dismay, as one blackened
object after another came under view. "I never saw such a thing!" he
cried piteously. "There has been something wrong at work here; or
else----"
Monk came to a sudden pause. "Or else what?" asked the Squire.
"Or else, moving the plants into the hall on Tuesday has killed them."
"Moving the plants wouldn't kill them. What are you thinking of, Monk?"
"_Moving_ them would not kill them, sir, or hurt them either," returned
Monk, with a stress on the first word; "but it might have been the
remote cause of it."
"I don't understand you!"
"I saw some result of the sort once, sir. It was at a gentleman's place
at Chiswick. All the choice plants were taken indoors to improvise a
kind of conservatory for a night fête. They were carried back the next
day, seemingly none the worse, and on the morrow were found withered."
"Like these?"
"No, sir, not so bad as these. They didn't die; they revived after a
time. A great fuss was made over it; the gentleman thought it must be
wilful damage, and offered twenty pounds reward for the discovery of the
offenders. At last it was found they had been poisoned by the candles."
"Poisoned by the candles!"
"A new sort of candle, very beautiful to look at, but with a great
quantity of arsenic in it," continued Monk. "A scientific man gave it as
his opinion that the poison thrown out from the candles had been fatal
to the plants. Perhaps something of the same kind has done the mischief
here, sir. Plants are such delicate things!"
"And what has been fatal to the grapes? _They_ were not taken into the
house."
The question came from the surgeon, Mr. Duffham. He had stood all the
while against the end of the far steps, looking fixedly at Monk over the
top of his cane. Monk put his eyes on the grapes above, and kept them
there while he answered.
"True, sir; the grapes, as you say, didn't go in. Perhaps the poison
brought back by the plants may have acted on them."
"Now, I tell you what, Monk, I think that's all nonsense," cried the
Squire, testily.
"Well, sir, I don't see any other way of accounting for this state of
things."
"The greenhouse was filled with some suffocating, smelling, blasting
stuff that knocked me back'ards," put in Jenkins. "Every crack and
crevice was stopped where a breath of air could have got in. I wish it
had been you to find it; you'd not have liked to be smothered alive, I
know."
"I wish it had been," said Monk. "If there was any such thing here, and
not your fancy, I'll be bound I'd have traced it out."
"Oh, would you! Did you do anything to them there pot-stands?" continued
Jenkins, pointing to them.
"No."
"Oh! Didn't clean 'em out?"
"I wiped a few out on Wednesday morning before we brought back the
plants. Somebody--Drew, I suppose--had stacked them in the wrong place.
In putting them right, I began to wipe them. I didn't do them all; I was
called away."
"'Twas me stacked 'em," said Jenkins. "Well--them stands are what had
held the poison; I found a'most one-half of 'em filled with it."
Monk cast a rapid glance around. "What was the poison?" he asked.
Jenkins grunted, but gave no other reply. The fact was, he had been so
abused by the Squire for having put away the trace of the "stuff," that
it was a sore subject.
"Did you come on here, Monk, before you started for Evesham this
morning?" questioned the Squire.
"I didn't come near the gardens, sir. I had told Jenkins last night to
be on early," replied Monk, bending over a blackened row of plants while
he spoke. "I went the back way to the stables through the lane, had
harnessed the horse to the cart, and was away before five."
We quitted the greenhouse. The pater went out with Mr. Duffham, Tod and
I followed. I, looking quietly on, had been struck with the contrast of
manner between old Duff and Monk--he peering at Monk with his searching
gaze, never once taking it off him; and Monk meeting nobody's eyes, but
shifting his own anywhere rather than meet them.
"About this queer arsenic tale Monk tells?" began the Squire. "Is there
anything in it? Will it hold water?"
"Moonshine!" said old Duff, with emphasis.
The tone was curious, and we all looked at him. He had got his lips
drawn in, and the top of his cane pressing them.
"Where did you take Monk from, Squire? Get a good character with him?"
"Jenkins brought him here. As to character, he had never been in any
situation before. Why? Do you suspect him?"
"Um-m-m!" said the doctor, prolonging the sound as though in doubt. "If
I do suspect him, he has caused me to. I never saw such a shifty manner
in all my life. Why, he never once looked at any of us! His eyes are
false, and his tones are false!"
"His tones? Do you mean his words?"
"I mean the tone his words are spoken in. To an apt ear, the sound of
a man's voice, or woman's either, can be read off like a book; a man's
voice is honest or dishonest according to his nature; and you can't
make a mistake about it. Monk's has a false ring in it, if ever I heard
one. Now, master Johnny, what are you looking so eager about?"
"I think Monk's voice false, too, Mr. Duffham; I have thought himself
false all along. Tod knows I have."
"I know that you are just a muff, Johnny, going in for prejudices
against people unreasonably," said Tod, putting me down as usual.
Old Duff pushed my straw hat up, and passed his fingers over the top of
my forehead. "Johnny, my boy," he said, "you have a strong and good
indication here for reading the world. _Trust to it._"
"I couldn't trust Monk. I never have trusted him. That was one reason
why I suspected him of stealing the things the magpie took."
"Well, you were wrong there," said Tod.
"Yes. But I'm nearly sure I was right in the thing before."
"What thing?" demanded old Duff, sharply.
"Well, I thought it was Monk that frightened Phoebe."
"Oh," said Mr. Duffham. "Dressed himself up in a sheet, and whitened his
face, and went up the lane when the women were watching for the shadows
on St. Mark's Eve! What else do you suspect, Johnny?"
"Nothing else, sir; except that I fancied Mother Picker knew of it. When
Tod and I went to ask her whether Monk was out that night, she looked
frightened to death, and broke a basin."
"Did she say he was out?"
"She said he was not out; but I thought she said it more eagerly than
truthfully."
"Squire, when you are in doubt as to people's morals, let this boy read
them for you," said old Duff, in his quaint way. The Squire, thinking of
his plants, looked as perplexed as could be.
"It is such a thing, you know, Duffham, to have one's whole hothouse
destroyed in a night. It's no better than arson."
"And the incendiary who did it would have no scruple in attacking the
barns next; therefore, he must be bowled out."
The pater looked rueful. He could bluster and threaten, but he could
not _do_ much; he never knew how to set about it. In all emergencies he
would send for Jones--the greatest old woman going.
"You don't seriously think it could have been Monk, Duffham?"
"I think there's strong suspicion that it was. Look here:" and the
doctor began to tell off points with his cane and fingers. "_Somebody_
goes into the greenhouse to set the stuff alight in the pot-stands--for
that's how it was done. Monk and Jenkins alone knew where the key was;
Jenkins, a trusty man, years in the employ, comes on at six and finds
the state of things. Where's Monk? Gone off by previous order to Evesham
at five. Why should it happen the very morning he was away? What was to
prevent his stealing into the greenhouse after dark last night putting
his deleterious stuff to work, leaving it to burn, and stealing in
again at four this morning to put all traces away? He thought he cleaned
out all the tale-telling earthen saucers, but he overlooks one, as
is usually the case. When he comes back, finding the wreck and the
commotion consequent upon it, he relates a glib tale of other plants
destroyed by arsenic from candles, and he never looks honestly into a
single face as he tells it!"