Let us meet,
And question this most bloody piece of work,
To know it farther. Macbeth
'If you please, sir, Master Hardy from the Vintry Mill wants to see
you, said a voice at Dr. May's door early in the morning; and the
Doctor completed his dressing in haste, muttering to himself
exclamations of concern that the old man's malady should have returned.
On entering the study, Hardy's appearance, whiter than even the
proverbial hue of his trade, his agitation of feature, confused eye,
and trembling lip, inspired fears that the case was more alarming than
had been apprehended; but to cheer him, the Doctor began, 'Frightened
about yourself, Master Hardy, eh! You've come out without breakfast,
and that's enough to put any man out of heart.'
'No, sir,' said the old man, 'it is nothing about myself; I wish it
were no worse; but I've not got the heart to go to tell the poor young
gentleman, and I thought--'
'What--what has happened to the boy?' exclaimed Dr. May, sharply,
standing as if ready to receive the rifle shot which he already
believed had destroyed Leonard.
'That's what we can't say, sir,' returned Hardy; 'but he is gone, no
one knows where. And, sir, my poor master was found at five o'clock
this morning, in his chair in his sitting-room, stone dead from a blow
on the head.'
'Mind what you are saying!' shouted the Doctor passionately. 'You old
scoundrel, you don't mean to tell me that you are accusing the lad!'
'I accuse nobody, sir,' said the old man, standing his ground, and
speaking steadily, but respectfully, 'I wouldn't say nothing to bring
any one into trouble if I could help it, and I came to ask you what was
to be done.'
'Yes, yes; I beg your pardon, Hardy, but it sounded enough to overset
one. Your poor master murdered, you say!'
Hardy nodded assent.
'And young Ward missing? Why, the burglars must have hurt the poor
fellow in defending his uncle. Have you searched the place?'
'I never thought of that, sir,' said Hardy, his countenance much
relieved; 'it would be more like such a young gentleman as Mr. Ward.'
'Then we'll get over to the mill as fast as we can, and see what can be
done,' said Dr. May, snatching up his hat and gloves. 'You come and
walk with me to Bankside, and tell me by the way about this terrible
business. Good heavens! they'll have thrown the boy into the river!'
And calling out that his carriage should follow to Bankside, the Doctor
dashed up-stairs, and knocked at Ethel's door. 'My dear,' he said,
'there has been a robbery or something at the Vintry Mill. I must go
and see Henry Ward about it. Poor old Axworthy is murdered, and I'm
terribly afraid Leonard has met with some foul play. You or Mary had
better go and see about Ave presently, but don't believe a word of
anything till you see me again.'
And shutting the door, while Ethel felt as if the room were reeling
round with her, Dr. May was in a few seconds more hastening along by
Hardy's side, extracting from him the little he had to tell. The old
man had been unlocking the door of the mill at five o'clock, when he
was summoned by loud shrieks from the window of Mr. Axworthy's
sitting-room, and found that the little maid had been appalled by the
sight of her master sunk forward from his gouty chair upon the table,
his hair covered with blood. Hardy had been the first to touch him,
and to perceive that he had long been dead. The housekeeper, the only
other servant who slept in the house, had rushed in half-dressed; but
neither nephew appeared. Young Axworthy had gone the previous day to
the county races, leaving the time of his return doubtful, and Leonard
Ward did not answer when called. It was then found that his room was
empty, his bed untouched, and the passage window outside his door left
open. The terrified servants held confused consultation, and while the
groom had hurried off to give the alarm at Whitford, and ride on in
search of Sam Axworthy, Hardy had taken another horse and started to
inform Henry Ward, but his heart failing him, he had come to beg the
Doctor to break the intelligence to the family.
Dr. May had few doubts that the robbers must have entered by the
passage window, and meeting resistance from Leonard, must have dragged
him out, and perhaps thrown him from it, then having gone on to their
murderous work in the old man's sitting-room. In that great rambling
house, where the maids slept afar off, and the rats held nightly
gambols, strange noises were not likely to be observed; and the thought
of Leonard lying stunned and insensible on the grass, made the Doctor's
pace almost a run, as if he were hastening to the rescue.
When Mr. Ward sent down word that he was not up, Dr. May replied that
he must see him in bed, and followed upon the very heels of the
messenger, encountering no amiable face, for Henry had armed himself
for defence against any possible reproaches for his treatment of any
patient. Even when Dr. May began, 'Henry, my poor fellow, I have
frightful news for you,' his month was opening to reply, 'I knew we
should lose that case,' let the patient be who he might, when the few
simple words put to flight all petulant jealousy, and restored Henry
Ward to what he had been when in his hour of sickness and affliction he
had leant in full confidence on Dr. May's unfailing kindness.
He was dressed by the time the brougham was at the door, and would have
hurried off without telling his sister of the alarm; but Dr. May,
knowing that the town must soon be ringing with the news, was sending
him to Averil's room, when both rejoiced to see Mary enter the house.
Charging her to keep Averil quiet, and believe nothing but what came
from themselves, they thrust on her the terrible commission and
hastened away, dwelling on the hope that every moment might be
important.
Old Hardy had already mounted his cart-horse, and for him farm roads so
shortened the distance, that he received them at the entrance of the
courtyard, which was crowded with excited gazers and important
policemen.
'Found him?' was the instantaneous question of both; but Hardy shook
his head so sadly, that the Doctor hastily exclaimed, 'What then?'
'Sir,' said Hardy very low, and with a deprecating look, 'he did go up
by the mail train to London last night--got in at Blewer station at
12.15. They have telegraphed up, sir.'
'I'll lay my life it is all a mistake,' said Dr. May, grasping Henry's
arm as if to give him support, and looking him in the face as though
resolved that neither should be cast down.
'That's not all, sir,' added Hardy, still addressing himself to the
elder gentleman. 'There's his rifle, sir.'
'Why, he was not shot!' sharply cried Dr. May. 'You told me so
yourself.'
'No, sir; but--You'll see for yourself presently! There's the blood
and gray hairs on the stock, sir.'
'Never fear, Henry; we shall see,' said Dr. May, pressing on, and
adding as soon as they were out of hearing, 'Nothing those folks, even
the best of them, like so well as laying on horrors thick enough.'
A policeman stood at the house door to keep off idlers; but Dr. May's
character and profession, as well as his municipal rank, caused way to
be instantly made for them. They found a superintendent within, and he
at once began, 'Most unfortunate business, Mr. Mayor--very mysterious;'
then, as a sign from the Doctor made him aware of Henry Ward's near
concern, he added, 'Shall I inform young Mr. Axworthy that you are
here?'
'Is he come?'
'Yes, sir. He had only slept at the Three Goblets, not half a mile
across the fields, you know, Mr. Mayor--came home too late to disturb
the house here, slept there, and was on the spot at the first
intelligence--before I was myself,' added the superintendent a little
jealously.
'Where is he?'
'In his room, sir. He was extremely overcome, and retired to his room
as soon as the necessary steps had been taken. Would you wish to see
the room, sir? We are keeping it locked till the inquest takes place;
but--'
Henry asked, 'When?' his first word since his arrival, and almost
inarticulate.
He was answered that it would probably be at two that afternoon; the
Whitford coroner had intimated that he was ready, and the down train
would be in by one. A telegram had just arrived, reporting that the
electric message had anticipated the mail train, and that young Mr.
Ward would be brought down in time.
'Never mind, never heed, Henry,' persisted Dr. May, pressing the young
man's arm as they proceeded to the door of the sitting-room; 'he must
be intensely shocked, but he will explain the whole. Nay, I've no
doubt we shall clear him. His rifle, indeed! I could swear to his
rifle anywhere.'
The superintendent had by this time opened the door of the
sitting-room, communicating on one side with the office, on the other
with the old man's bed-room.
Except that the body had been carried to the bed in the inner chamber,
all remained as it had been found. There were no signs of robbery--not
even of a struggle. The cushions of the easy-chair still bore the
impress of the sitter's weight; the footstool was hardly pushed aside;
the massive library table was undisturbed; the silver spoons and
sugar-tongs beside the tumbler and plate on the supper tray; the yellow
light of the lamp still burnt; not a paper was ruffled, not a drawer
pulled out. Only a rifle stood leaning against the window shutter, and
towards it both friend and brother went at once, hoping and trusting
that it would be a stranger to their eyes.
Alas! alas! only too familiar were the rich brown mottlings of the
stock, the steel mountings, the eagle crest, and twisted H. E. cipher!
and in sickness of heart the Doctor could not hide from himself the
dark clot of gore and the few white hairs adhering to the wood, and
answering to the stain that dyed the leather of the desk.
Henry could not repress an agonized groan, and averted his face; but
his companion undaunted met the superintendent's eye and query, 'You
know it, sir!'
'I do. It was my son-in-law's present to him. I wonder where he kept
it, for the ruffians to get hold of it.'
The superintendent remained civil and impassive, and no one spoke to
break the deathly hush of the silent room, filled with the appliances
of ordinary business life, but tainted with the awful unexplained mark
that there had been the foot of the shedder of blood in silence and at
unawares.
The man in authority at length continued his piteous exhibition. Dr.
Rankin of Whitford had arrived on the first alarm; but would not the
gentlemen see the body? And he led them on, Dr. May's eyes on the
alert to seize on anything exculpatory, but detecting nothing, seeing
only the unwieldy helpless form and aged feeble countenance of the
deceased, and receiving fresh impressions of the brutality and
cowardice of the hand that could have struck the blow. He looked,
examined, defined the injury, and explained that it must have caused
instant death, thus hoping to divert attention from his pale
horror-stricken companion, whose too apparent despondency almost
provoked him.
At the Doctor's request they were taken up the staircase into the
corridor, and shown the window, which had been found nearly closed but
not fastened, as though it had been partially shut down from the
outside. The cedar bough almost brushed the glass, and the slope of
turf came so high up the wall, that an active youth could easily swing
himself down to it; and the superintendent significantly remarked that
the punt was on the farther side of the stream, whereas the evening
before it had been on the nearer. Dr. May leant out over the
window-sill, still in the lingering hope of seeing--he knew not what,
but he only became oppressed by the bright still summer beauty of the
trees and grass and sparkling water, insensible of the horror that
brooded over all. He drew back his head; and as the door hard by was
opened, Leonard's little dog sprang from her basket kennel, wagging her
tail in hopes of her master, but in her disappointment greeting one
whom dogs always hailed as a friend,
'Poor little doggie! good little Mab! If only you could tell us!' and
the creature fondly responded to his gentle hand, though keeping aloof
from Henry, in mindfulness of past passages between them, while Henry
could evidently not bear to look at her.
They gazed round the room, but it conveyed no elucidation of the
mystery. There were Leonard's books in their range on the drawers, his
fossils in his cupboard, his mother's photograph on his mantel-piece,
his sister's drawings on the wall. His gray uniform lay on the bed as
if recently taken off, his ordinary office coat was folded on a chair,
and he seemed to have dressed and gone in his best clothes. While
anxiously seeking some note of explanation, they heard a step, and Sam
Axworthy entered, speaking fast and low in apology for not having
sooner appeared, but he had been thoroughly upset; as indeed he looked,
his whole appearance betraying the disorder of the evening's
dissipation, followed by the morning's shock.
Most unfortunate, he said, that he had not returned earlier. His
friend Black--Tom Black, of Edsall Green--had driven him home in his
dog-cart, set him down at the turn to cross the fields--moon as light
as day--no notion, of the lateness till he got in sight of the great
clock, and saw it was half-past twelve; so knowing the early habits of
the place, he had thought it best to turn back, and get a bed at the
Three Goblets. If he had only come home, he might have prevented
mischief! There ensued a few commonplace words on the old man's infirm
state, yet his independent habits, and reluctance to let any servant
assist him, or even sleep near him. Sam spoke as if in a dream, and
was evidently so unwell, that Dr. May thought it charitable to follow
the dictates of his own disgust at breaking bread in that house of
horrors, and refuse offers of breakfast. He said he must go home, but
would return for the inquest, and asked whether Henry would remain to
meet his brother.
'No, no, thank you,' said Henry huskily, as with the driest of throats,
and a perceptible shudder, he turned to go away; the Doctor pausing to
caress little Mab, and say, 'I had better take home this poor little
thing. She may come to harm here, and may be a comfort to the sister.'
No objection came from Sam, but Mab herself ran back to her house, and
even snarled at the attempt to detach her from it. 'You are a faithful
little beast,' he said, 'and your master will soon be here to set all
straight, so I will leave you for the present;' and therewith he signed
farewell, and breathed more freely as he gained the outer air.
'I'll tell you what, Henry,' he said, as they drove out of the
courtyard, 'we'll bring out Bramshaw to watch the case. He will see
through this horrible mystery, and throw the suspicion in the right
quarter, whatever that may be, depend upon it.'
Henry had thrown himself back in the carriage with averted face, and
only answered by a groan.
'Come, don't be so downcast,' said Dr. May; 'it is a frightful affair,
no doubt, and Leonard has chosen a most unlucky moment for this
escapade; but he will have a thorough warning against frolics.'
'Frolics indeed!' said Henry, bitterly.
'Well, I'll be bound that's all he has attempted, and it has got him
into a horrid scrape; and ten to one but the police have got the real
ruffians in their hands by this time.'
'I have no hope,' said Henry.
'More shame for you not to feel a certain confidence that He who sees
all will show the right.'
'If!' said Henry, breaking off with a sound and look of such intense
misery as almost to stagger the Doctor himself, by reminding him of
Leonard's violent temper, and the cause Henry had to remember his
promptness of hand; but that Ethel's pupil, Aubrey's friend, the boy of
ingenuous face, could under any provocation strike helpless old age,
or, having struck, could abscond without calling aid, actuated by
terror, not by pity or repentance, was more than Dr. May could believe,
and after brief musing, he broke out in indignant refutation.
'I should have thought so. I wish I still could believe so' sighed
Henry; 'but--' and there they lapsed into silence, till, as they came
near the town, Dr. May offered to set him down at Bankside.
'No! no, thank you,' he cried in entreaty. 'I cannot see her--Ave.'
'Then come home with me. You shall see no one, and you will look up
when you are not faint and fasting. You young men don't stand up
against these things like us old stagers.'
As the carriage stopped, several anxious faces were seen on the watch,
but the Doctor signed them back till he had deposited Henry in his
study, and then came among them.
Gertrude was the first to speak. 'O, papa, papa, what is it! Mrs.
Pugh has been here to ask, and Ethel won't let me hear, though Tom and
Aubrey know.'
'I took refuge in your order to believe nothing till you came,' said
Ethel, with hands tightly clasped together.
'It is true, then?' asked Tom.
'True that it looks as bad as bad can be,' said the Doctor, sighing
heavily, and proceeding to state the aspect of the case.
'It is a trick--a plot,' cried Aubrey passionately; 'I know it is! He
always said he would run away if they tried to teach him dishonesty;
and now they have done this and driven him away, and laid the blame on
him. Ethel, why don't you say you are sure of it?'
'Leonard would be changed indeed if this were so,' said Ethel,
trembling as she stood, and hardly able to speak articulately.
Aubrey broke out with a furious 'If,' very different from Henry Ward's.
'It would not be the Leonard we knew at Coombe,' said Ethel. 'He might
be blind with rage, but he would never be cowardly. No. Unless he own
it, nothing shall ever make me believe it.'
'Own it! For shame, Ethel,' cried Aubrey. And even the Doctor
exclaimed, 'You are as bad as poor Henry himself, who has not got soul
enough to be capable of trusting his brother.'
'I do trust,' said Ethel, looking up. 'I shall trust his own word,'
and she sat down without speaking, and knitted fast, but her needles
clattered.
'And how about that poor girl at Bankside?' said the Doctor.
'I went down there,' said Tom, 'just to caution the servants against
bringing in stories. She found out I was there, and I had to go in and
make the best of it.'
'And what sort of a best?' said the Doctor.
'Why, she knew he used to get out in the morning to bathe, and was
persuaded he had been drowned; so I told her I knew he was alive and
well, and she would hear all about it when you came back. I brought
the youngest child away with me, and Gertrude has got her up-stairs;
the other would not come. Poor thing! Mary says she is very good and
patient; and I must say she was wonderfully reasonable when I talked to
her.'
'Thank you, Tom,' said his father with warmth, 'it was very kind of
you. I wonder if Ave knew anything of this runaway business; it might
be the saving of him!'
'I did,' said Aubrey eagerly; 'at least, I know he said he would not
stay if they wanted to put him up to their dishonest tricks; and he
talked of that very window!'
'Yes, you imprudent fellow; and you were telling Mrs. Pugh so, if I
hadn't stopped you,' said Tom. 'You'll be taken up for an accomplice
next, if you don't hold your tongue.'
'What did he say?' asked the Doctor, impatiently; and then declared
that he must instantly go to Bankside, as soon as both he and Henry had
taken some food; 'for,' he added, 'we are both too much shaken to deal
rationally with her.'
Ethel started up in shame and dismay at having neglected to order
anything. The Doctor was served in the study alone with Henry, and
after the briefest meal, was on his way to Bankside.
He found Averil with the crimson cheek and beseeching eye that he knew
so well, as she laid her trembling hand on his, and mutely looked up
like a dumb creature awaiting a blow.
'Yes, my dear,' he said, tenderly, 'your brother needs prayer such as
when we watched him last year, he is in peril of grave suspicion.' And
as she stood waiting and watching for further explanation, he
continued, 'My dear, he told you everything. You do not know of any
notion of his of going away, or going out without leave?'
'Why is Leonard to be always suspected of such things?' cried Averil.
'He never did them!'
'Do you know?' persisted Dr. May.
'But you are mayor!' cried Averil, indignantly, withdrawing her hand.
'You want me to accuse him!'
'My dear, if I were ten times mayor, it would make no difference. My
jurisdiction does not even cross the river here; and if it did, this is
a graver case than I deal with. I am come, as his friend, to beg you
to help me to account for his unhappy absence in any harmless way.
Were it ever so foolish or wrong, it would be the best news that ever I
heard.'
'But--but I can't,' said Averil. 'I never knew he was going out! I
know he used to get out at the passage window to bathe and fish before
the house was astir--and--you know he is safe, Dr. May?'
Dr. May would almost sooner have known that he was at the bottom of the
deepest pool in the river, than where he was. 'He is safe, my poor
child. He is well, and I trust he will be able to prove his innocence;
but he must so account for his absence as to clear himself. Averil,
there is a charge against him--of being concerned in your uncle's
death.'
Averil's eyes dilated, and she breathed short and fast, standing like a
statue. Little Minna, whom the Doctor had scarcely perceived, standing
in a dark corner, sprang forward, exclaiming, 'O, Ave, don't be afraid!
Nobody can hurt him for what he did not do!'
The words roused Averil, and starting forward, she cried, 'Dr. May, Dr.
May, you will save him! He is fatherless and motherless, and his
brother has always been harsh to him; but you will not forsake him; you
said you would be a father to us! Oh, save Leonard!'
'My dear, as I would try to save my own son, I will do my utmost for
him; but little or nothing depends on me or on any man. By truth and
justice he must stand or fall; and you must depend on the Father of the
fatherless, who seeth the truth! as this dear child tells you,' with
his hand on Minna's head, 'he cannot be really injured while he is
innocent.'
Awed into calm, Averil let him seat her beside him, and put her in
possession of the main facts of the case, Minna standing by him, her
hand in his, evidently understanding and feeling all that passed.
Neither could throw light on anything. Leonard had been less
communicative to them than to Aubrey, and had kept his resolution of
uncomplainingly drinking the brewst he had brewed for himself. All
Averil could tell was, that her uncle had once spoken to Henry in
commendation of his steadiness and trustworthiness, though at the same
time abusing him for airs and puppyism.
'Henry would tell you. Where is Henry?' she added.
'In my study. He could not bear to bring you these tidings. You must
be ready to comfort him, Ave.'
'Don't let him come,' she cried. 'He never was kind to Leonard. He
drove him there. I shall always feel that it was his doing.'
'Averil,' said Dr. May gravely, 'do you forget how much that increases
his suffering? Nothing but mutual charity can help you through this
fiery trial. Do not let anger and recrimination take from you the last
shreds of comfort, and poison your prayers. Promise me to be kind to
Henry, for indeed he needs it.'
'O, Dr. May,' said Minna, looking up with her eyes full of tears,
'indeed I will. I was cross to Henry because he was cross to Leonard,
but I won't be so any more.'
Ave drooped her head, as if it were almost impossible to her to speak.
Dr. May patted Minna's dark head caressingly, and said to the elder
sister, 'I will not urge you more. Perhaps you may have Leonard back,
and then joy will open your hearts; or if not, my poor Ave, the sight
of Henry will do more than my words.'
Mary looked greatly grieved, but said nothing, only following her
father to take his last words and directions. 'Keep her as quiet as
you can. Do not worry her, but get out this root of bitterness if you
can. Poor, poor things!'
'That little Minna is a dear child!' said Mary. 'She is grown so much
older than Ella, or than she was last year. She seems to understand
and feel like a grown-up person. I do think she may soften poor Ave
more than I can; but, papa, there is excuse. Mr. Ward must have made
them more miserable than we guessed.'
'The more reason she must forgive him. O, Mary, I fear a grievous
lesson is coming to them; but I must do all I can. Good-bye, my dear;
do the best you can for them;' and he set forth again with a bleeding
heart.
At the attorney's office, he found the principal from home, but the
partner, Edward Anderson, on the qui vive for a summons to attend on
behalf of his fellow-townsman, and confident that however bad were the
present aspect of affairs, his professional eye would instantly find a
clue.
Aubrey was in an agony of excitement, but unable to endure the notion
of approaching the scene of action; and his half-choked surly 'Don't'
was sufficient to deter his brother Thomas, who had never shown himself
so kind, considerate, and free from sneer or assumption. In 'hours of
ease' he might seem selfish and exacting, but a crisis evoked the
latent good in him, and drew him out of himself.
Nor would Henry return to Bankside. After many vacillations, the
moment for starting found him in a fit of despair about the family
disgrace, only able to beg that 'the unhappy boy' should be assured
that no expense should be spared in his defence; or else, that if he
were cleared and returned home, his welcome should be most joyful. But
there Henry broke off, groaned, said they should never look up again,
and must leave the place.
Except for Averil's own sake, Dr. May would almost have regretted his
exhortations in favour of her eldest brother.
In due time the Doctor arrived at the mill, where the inquest was to
take place, as the public-house was small, and inconveniently distant;
and there was ample accommodation in the large rambling building. So
crowded was the court-yard, that the Doctor did not easily make his way
to the steps of the hall door; but there, after one brief question to
the policeman in charge, he waited, though several times invited in.
Before long, all eyes turned one way, as a closed fly, with a policeman
on the box, drove in at the gateway, stopped, and between the two men
on guard appeared a tall young figure.
The Doctor's first glance showed him a flushed and weary set of
features, shocked and appalled; but the eyes, looking straight up in
their anxiety, encountered his with an earnest grateful appeal for
sympathy, answered at once by a step forward with outstretched hand.
The grip of the fingers was heated, agitated, convulsive, but not
tremulous; and there was feeling, not fear, in the low husky voice that
said, 'Thank you. Is Henry here?'
'No, he is too--too much overcome; but he hopes to see you at home
to-night; and here is Edward Anderson, whom he has sent to watch the
proceedings for you.'
'Thank you,' said Leonard, acknowledging Edward's greeting. 'As far as
I am concerned, I can explain all in a minute; but my poor uncle--I
little thought--'
There was no opportunity for further speech in private, for the coroner
had already arrived, and the inquiry had been only deferred until
Leonard should have come. The jury had been viewing the body, and the
proceedings were to take place in the large low dining-room, where the
southern windows poured in a flood of light on the faces of the persons
crowded together, and the reflections from the rippling water danced on
the ceiling. Dr. May had a chair given him near the coroner, and
keenly watched the two nephews--one seated next to him, the other at
some distance, nearly opposite. Both young men looked haggard,
shocked, and oppressed: the eye of Axworthy was unceasingly fixed on an
inkstand upon the table, and never lifted, his expression never varied;
and Leonard's glance flashed inquiringly from one speaker to another,
and his countenance altered with every phase of the evidence.
The first witness was Anne Ellis, the young maid-servant, who told of
her coming down at ten minutes after five that morning, the 6th of
July, and on going in to clean the rooms, finding her master sunk
forward on the table. Supposing him to have had a fit, she had run to
the window and screamed for help, when Master Hardy, the foreman, and
Mrs. Giles, the housekeeper, had come in.
James Hardy deposed to having heard the girl's cry while he was
unlocking the mill door. Coming in by the low sash-window, which stood
open, he had gone up to his master, and had seen the wound on the head,
and found the body quite cold, Mrs. Giles coming in, they had carried
it to the bed in the next room; and he had gone to call the young
gentlemen, but neither was in his room. He knew that it had been left
uncertain whether Mr. Samuel would return to sleep at home between the
two days of the county races, but he did not expect Mr. Ward to be out;
and had then observed that his bed had not been slept in, and that the
passage window outside his room was partly open. He had then thought
it best to go into Stoneborough to inform the family.
Rebecca Giles, the housekeeper, an elderly woman, crying violently,
repeated the evidence as to the discovery of the body. The last time
she had seen her master alive, was when she had carried in his supper
at nine o'clock, when he had desired her to send Mr. Ward to him; and
had seemed much vexed to hear that the young man had not returned from
rifle practice, little thinking, poor old gentleman!--but here the
housekeeper was recalled to her subject. The window was then open, as
it was a sultry night, but the blind down. Her master was a good deal
crippled by gout, and could not at that time move actively nor write,
but could dress himself, and close a window. He disliked being
assisted; and the servants were not in the habit of seeing him from the
time his supper was brought in till breakfast next morning. She had
seen Mr. Ward come home at twenty minutes or half after nine, in
uniform, carrying his rifle; she had given the message, and he had gone
into the sitting-room without putting down the rifle. She believed it
to be the one on the table, but could not say so on oath; he never let
any one touch it; and she never looked at such horrid murderous things.
And some remarks highly adverse to the volunteer movement were cut
short.
William Andrews, groom, had been called by Anne Ellis, had seen the
wound, and the blood on the desk, and had gone to fetch a surgeon and
the police from Whitford. On his return, saw the rifle leaning against
the shutter; believed it to be Mr. Ward's rifle.
Charles Rankin, surgeon, had been called in to see Mr. Axworthy, and
arrived at seven o'clock A. M. Found him dead, from a fracture of the
skull over the left temple, he should imagine, from a blow from a heavy
blunt instrument, such as the stock of a gun. Death must have been
instantaneous, and had probably taken place seven or eight hours before
he was called in. The marks upon the rifle before him were probably
blood; but he could not say so upon oath, till he had subjected them to
microscopic examination. The hair was human, and corresponded with
that of the deceased.
Samuel Axworthy had slept at the Three Goblets, in consequence of
finding himself too late for admission at home. He had been wakened at
half-past five, and found all as had been stated by the previous
witnesses; and he corroborated the housekeeper's account of his uncle's
habits. The rifle he believed to belong to his cousin, Leonard Ward.
He could not account for Leonard Ward's absence on that morning. No
permission, as far as he was aware, had been given him to leave home;
and he had never known his uncle give him any commission at that hour.
The different policemen gave their narrations of the state of
things--the open window, the position of the boat, &c. And the
ticket-clerk at the small Blewer Station stated that at about 12.15 at
night, Mr. Ward had walked in without baggage, and asked for a
second-class ticket to London.
Leonard here interposed an inquiry whether he had not said a day
ticket, and the clerk recollected that he had done so, and had spoken
of returning by four o'clock; but the train, being reckoned as
belonging to the previous day, no return tickets were issued for it,
and he had therefore taken an ordinary one, and started by the mail
train.
The London policeman, who had come down with Leonard, stated that, in
consequence of a telegraphic message, he had been at the Paddington
Station at 6.30 that morning; had seen a young gentleman answering to
the description sent to him, asked if his name were Leonard Ward, and
receiving a reply in the affirmative, had informed him of the charge,
and taken him into custody. The bag that he placed on the table he had
found on the young man's person.
Every one was startled at this unexpected corroboration of the
suspicion. It was a heavy-looking bag, of reddish canvas, marked with
a black circle, containing the letters F. A. Gold; the neck tied with a
string; the contents were sovereigns, and a note or two.
Dr. May looked piteously, despairingly, at Leonard; but the brow was
still open and unclouded, the eye glanced back reassurance and
confidence.
The policeman added that he had cautioned the young man to take care
what he said, but that he had declared at once that his uncle had sent
him to lodge the sum in Drummond's Bank, and that he would show a
receipt for it on his return.
The coroner then proceeded to examine Leonard, but still as a witness.
Edward Anderson spoke to him in an undertone, advising him to be
cautious, and not commit himself, but Leonard, rather impatiently
thanking him, shook him off, and spoke with freedom and openness.
'I have nothing to keep back,' he said. 'Of course I know nothing of
this frightful murder, nor what villain could have got hold of the
rifle, which, I am sorry to say, is really mine. Last evening I used
it at drill and practice on Blewer Heath, and came home when it grew
dusk, getting in at about half-past nine. I was then told by Mrs.
Giles that my uncle wished to speak to me, and was displeased at my
staying out so late. I went into his room as I was, and put my rifle
down in a corner by the window, when he desired me to sit down and
listen to him. He then told me that he wished to send me to town by
the mail train, to take some cash to Drummond's Bank, and to return by
to-day's four o'clock train. He said he had reasons for wishing no one
to be aware of his opening an account there, and he undertook to
explain my absence. He took the sum from the private drawer of his
desk, and made me count it before him, £124 12s. in sovereigns and
bank-notes. The odd money he gave me for my expenses, the rest I put
in the bag that I fetched out of the office. He could not hold a pen,
and could therefore give me no letter to Messrs. Drummond, but he made
me write a receipt for the amount in his memorandum book. I wished him
good night, and left him still sitting in his easy-chair, with the
window open and the blind down. I found that I had forgotten my rifle,
but I did not go back for it, because he disliked the disturbance of
opening and shutting doors. While I was changing my dress, I saw from
the window that some one was still about in the court, and knowing that
my uncle wished me to avoid notice, I thought it best to let myself out
by the passage window, as I had sometimes done in early mornings to
bathe or fish, and go across the fields to Blewer Station. I got down
into the garden, crossed in the punt, and went slowly by Barnard's
hatch; I believe I stopped a good many times, as it was too soon, and a
beautiful moonlight night, but I came to Blewer soon after twelve, and
took my ticket. At Paddington I met this terrible news.'
As the boy spoke, his bright eyes turned from one listener to another,
as though expecting to read satisfaction on their faces; but as doubt
and disbelief clouded all, his looks became almost constantly directed
to Dr. May, and his voice unconsciously passed from a sound of
justification to one of pleading. When he ceased, he glanced round as
if feeling his innocence established.
'You gave a receipt, Mr. Ward,' said the coroner. 'Will you tell us
where it is likely to be?'
'It must be either on or in my uncle's desk, or in his pocket. Will
some one look for it? I wrote it in his memorandum book--a curious old
black shagreen book, with a silver clasp. I left it open on the desk
to dry.'
A policeman went to search for it; and the coroner asked what the entry
had been.
'July 5th, 1860. Received, £120. L. A. Ward,'--was the answer. 'You
will find it about the middle of the book, or rather past it.'
'At what time did this take place?'
'It must have been towards ten. I cannot tell exactly, but it was
later than half-past nine when I came in, and he was a good while
bringing out the money.'
The policeman returned, saying he could not find the book; and Leonard
begging to show where he had left it, the coroner and jury accompanied
him to the room. At the sight of the red stain on the desk, a
shuddering came over the boy, and a whiteness on his heated brow, nor
could he at once recover himself so as to proceed with the search,
which was still in vain; though with a voice lowered by the sickness of
horror, he pointed out the place where he had laid it, and the pen he
had used; and desk, table, drawer, and the dead man's dress were
carefully examined.
'You must know it, Sam,' said Leonard. 'Don't you remember his putting
in the cheque--old Bilson's cheque for his year's rent--twenty-five
pounds? I brought it in, and he put it away one day last week. You
were sitting there.'
Sam stammered something of 'Yes, he did recollect something of it.'
Inquiries were made of the other persons concerned with Mr. Axworthy.
Hardy thought his master used such a book, but had never seen it near;
Mrs. Giles altogether disbelieved its existence; and Sam could not be
positive--his uncle never allowed any one to touch his private
memorandums.
As, with deepened anxiety, Dr. May returned to the dining-room, he
caught a glimpse of Henry Ward's desponding face, but received a sign
not to disclose his presence. Edward Anderson wrote, and considered;
and the coroner, looking at his notes again, recurred to Leonard's
statement that he had seen some one in the yard.
'I thought it was one of the men waiting to take my cousin Axworthy's
horse. I did not know whether he had ridden or gone by train; and I
supposed that some one would be looking out for him.'
Questions were asked whether any of the servants had been in the yard,
but it was denied by all; and on a more particular description of the
person being demanded, Leonard replied that the figure had been in the
dark shade of the stables, and that he only knew that it was a young
man--whether a stranger or not he did not know; he supposed now that it
must have been the--the murderer, but at the time he had thought it one
of the stable-men; and as his uncle had particularly wished that his
journey should be a secret, the sight had only made him hasten to put
out his light, and depart unseen. It was most unfortunate that he had
done so.
Others ironically whispered, 'Most unfortunate.'
The coroner asked Mr. Anderson whether he had anything to ask or
observe, and on his reply in the negative, proceeded to sum up the
evidence for the consideration of the jury.
It seemed as if it were only here that Leonard perceived the real gist
of the evidence. His brow grew hotter, his eyes indignant, his hands
clenched, as if he with difficulty restrained himself from breaking in
on the coroner's speech; and when at length the question was put to the
jury, he stood, the colour fading from his cheek, his eyes set and
glassy, his lip fallen, the dew breaking out on his brow, every limb as
it were petrified by the shock of what was thus first fully revealed to
him.
So he stood, while the jury deliberated in low gruff sorrowful murmurs,
and after a few minutes, turned round to announce with much sadness
that they could do no otherwise than return a verdict of wilful murder
against Leonard Ward.
'Mr. Leonard Ward,' said the coroner, a gentleman who had well known
his father, and who spoke with scarcely concealed emotion, 'it becomes
my painful duty to commit you to Whitford Gaol for trial at the next
assizes.'
Dr. May eagerly offered bail, rather as the readiest form of kindness
than in the hope of its acceptance, and it was of course refused; but
he made his way to the prisoner, and wrung his chill hand with all his
might. The pressure seemed to waken the poor lad from his frozen
rigidity; the warmth came flowing back into his fingers as his friend
held them; he raised his head, shut and re-opened his eyes, and pushed
back his hair, as though trying to shake himself loose from a too
horrible dream. His face softened and quivered as he met the Doctor's
kind eyes; but bracing himself again, he looked up, answered the
coroner's question--that his Christian name was Leonard Axworthy, his
age within a few weeks of eighteen; and asked permission to fetch what
he should want from his room.
The policeman, in whose charge he was, consented both to this, and to
Dr. May being there alone with him for a short time.
Then it was that the boy relaxed the strain on his features, and said
in a low and strangled voice, 'O, Dr. May, if you had only let me die
with them last year!'
'It was not I who saved you. He who sent that ordeal, will bring you
through--this,' said Dr. May, with a great sob in his throat that
belied his words of cheer.
'I thank Him at least for having taken her,' said Leonard, resting his
head on the mantel-shelf beneath his mother's picture, while his little
dog sat at his foot, looking up at him, cowed and wistful.
Dr. May strove for words of comfort, but broke utterly down; and could
only cover his face with his hands, and struggle with his emotion,
unable to utter a word.
Yet perhaps none would have been so comforting as his genuine sympathy,
although it was in a voice of extreme distress that Leonard exclaimed,
'Dr. May, Dr. May, pray don't! you ought not to grieve for me!'
'I'm a fool,' said Dr. May, after some space, fighting hard with
himself. 'Nonsense! we shall see you out of this! We have only to
keep up a good heart, and we shall see it explained.'
'I don't know; I can't understand,' said Leonard, passing his hand over
his weary forehead. 'Why could they not believe when I told them just
how it was?'
At that moment the policeman opened the door, saying, 'Here, sir;' and
Henry hurried in, pale and breathless, not looking in his brother's
face, as he spoke fast and low.
'Ned Anderson says there's nothing at all to be made of this defence of
yours; it is of no use to try it. The only thing is to own that he
found fault with you, and in one of your rages--you know--'
'You too, Henry!' said Leonard, in dejected reproach.
'Why--why, it is impossible it could have been otherwise--open window,
absconding, and all. We all know you never meant it; but your story
won't stand; and the only chance, Anderson says, is to go in for
manslaughter. If you could only tell anything that would give him a
clue to pick up evidence while the people are on the spot.'
Leonard's face was convulsed for a moment while his brother was
speaking; but he recovered calmness of voice, as he mournfully
answered, 'I have no right to wonder at your suspicion of me.'
Henry for the first time really looked at him, and instinctively
faltered, 'I beg your pardon.'
'Indeed,' said Leonard, with the same subdued manner, 'I cannot believe
that any provocation could make me strike a person like that old man;
and here there was none at all. Except that he was vexed at first at
my being late, he had never been so near kindness.'
'Then is this extraordinary story the truth?'
'Why should I not tell the truth?' was the answer, too mournful for
indignation.
Henry again cast down his eyes, Leonard moved about making
preparations, Dr. May leant against the wall--all too much oppressed
for speech; till, as Leonard stooped, poor little Mab, thrusting her
black head into his hand, drew from him the words, 'My doggie, what is
to become of you?'
A sort of hoarse explosion of 'Ave' from Henry was simultaneous with
the Doctor's 'I tried to get her home with me in the morning, but she
waited your orders.'
'Miss May would not have her now. After all, prussic acid would be the
truest mercy' said Leonard, holding the little creature up to his face,
and laying his cheek against her silken coat with almost passionate
affection.
'Not while there are those who trust your word, Leonard; as Ethel said
this morning.'
He raised the face which he had hidden against the dog, and looked
earnestly at the Doctor as if hardly venturing to understand him; then
a ray of real gladness and comfort darted into his eyes, which so
enlivened Dr. May, that he was able to say cheerfully, 'We will take
good care of her till you come for her.'
'Then, Henry,' said Leonard, 'it is not unkindness, nor that I remember
things, but indeed I think it will be better for you all, since Dr. May
is so--so--' The word kind was so inadequate, that it stuck in his
throat. 'Take this to Ave,' putting his mother's likeness in his hand,
'and tell her I will write,'
'Poor Ave!'
Leonard imploringly shook his head; the mention of his sister shook him
more than he could bear; and he asked the time.
'Nearly six.'
'Only six! What an endless day! There, I am ready. There is no use
in delaying. I suppose I must show what I am taking with me.'
'Wait,' said his brother. 'Cannot you say anything to put us on the
track of the man in the yard?'
'I did not see him plain.'
'You've no notion?' said Henry, with a movement of annoyance.
'No. I only looked for a moment; for I was much more anxious to get
off quietly, than to make any one out. If I had only waited ten
minutes, it might have been the saving of his life, but my commission
was so like fun, and so important too, that I thought of nothing else.
Can it be not twenty-four hours ago?'
'And why don't you explain why he sent you?'
'I cannot say it so certainly as to be of the slightest use,' said
Leonard.
'He never expressed it either; and I have no right to talk of my
suspicions.'
'Eh! was it to put it out of Sam's way?'
'So I suppose. Sam used to get all he chose out of the poor old man;
and I believe he thought this the only chance of keeping anything for
himself, but he never told me so. Stay! Bilson's cheque might be
tracked. I took it myself, and gave the receipt; you will find it
entered in the books--paid on either the twenty-third or fourth.'
'Then there's something to do, at any rate,' cried Henry, invigorated.
'Anderson shall hunt out the balance and Sam's draughts on it. I'll
spare no expense, Leonard, if it is to my last farthing; and you shall
have the best counsel that can be retained.'
Leonard signed thanks with some heartiness, and was going to the door,
when Henry detained him. 'Tell me, Leonard, have you no suspicion?'
'It must have been the person I saw in the court, and, like a fool, did
not watch. The window was open, and he could have easily got in and
come out. Can't they see that if it had been me, I should have made
off at once that way?'
'If you could only tell what the fellow was like!'
'I told you he was in the dark,' said Leonard, and without giving time
for more, he called in the man outside, showed the clothes and, books
he had selected, put them into his bag, and declared himself ready,
giving his hand to the Doctor, who drew him near and kissed his brow,
as if he had been Harry setting forth on a voyage.
'Good-bye, my dear fellow; God bless you; I'll soon come to see you.'
'And I,' said Henry, 'will bring Bramshaw to see what is to be done.'
Leonard wrung his brother's hand, murmuring something of love to his
sisters; then put Mab into Dr. May's arms, with injunctions that the
little creature understood and obeyed, for though trembling and whining
under her breath, she was not resisting.
It might be to shorten her distress as well as his own that Leonard
passed quickly down-stairs, and entered the carriage that was to take
him to the county gaol.