THE BOLT.
It wanted now but three days to Christmas, and Pelham and his wife were
very busy. They were happy in their new life, and all Pelham’s
suspicions had rolled away like a cloud on a summer’s morning. He was
sorry for Piers, sorry for the child’s early death, but his own life now
fully occupied him.
Pelham was a good fellow. He was married to the girl he loved. Day by
day he saw more of the charm and beauty of her character—she was all
his. To pour his riches at her feet, to surround her with glory and
honor were his delight. Yes, he would live a good life, the best life of
all, for the sake of his tenantry and for the sake of Barbara.
Mrs. Pelham’s message and her sudden departure puzzled the young couple.
“What can it mean?” said Barbara. “Mrs. Pelham was not going to leave us
until long after Christmas. My mother arrives to-morrow. What can be the
matter?”
“She doubtless had her reasons,” said Pelham. “She will write and tell
you when she gets to town.”
“I wonder what Dr. Tarbot really wanted with her?” continued Barbara.
Pelham drew his wife to his side.
“Don’t let us talk about Tarbot,” he said.
“Why so?”
“I dislike the man so cordially. What about that Christmas tree?”
Barbara brightened up.
“I shall go into Exeter to-day,” she said, “and I will buy the things
necessary for the tree there. Will you come with me, Dick?”
“I cannot. I have to see Manson about the lease for the South Meadow
Farm. It is a lovely day, and you may as well drive over to Exeter. The
horses are eating their heads off, and a long run will do them good.”
The pair had this conversation in their room before they went down to
breakfast. On the breakfast table several letters awaited them. Amongst
others was one from Mrs. Evershed. In this she announced her intention
of arriving at Pelham Towers by a certain train in the afternoon.
“I did not know that mother would choose that train,” said Barbara. “As
that is the case, Dick, I will go to Exeter by train, for I can just fit
things in, and return in time to join mother at Haversham station. We
will then drive home together.”
“Very well, dear, as you like.”
“I shall buy quite a cartload of things,” said Barbara, laughing as she
spoke. “I want this Christmas tree to be the best the children have ever
seen. You may as well select a fir tree for the purpose when you take
your rounds this morning, Dick.”
“All right,” he answered.
Barbara having finished her breakfast went to the window.
“How lovely things are looking!” she said. “But it is cold. I should not
be surprised if we had a fall of snow.”
Pelham joined his wife at the window. A fairer scene could scarcely be
found in the length and breadth of England. The place was covered with
hoar frost, the rolling lawns were skirted by great forest trees, there
was a lake in the distance, and a range of low-lying hills stood out
against the horizon. The high road wound like a white ribbon through the
heart of the landscape. There was a peace and a great silence over the
scene. A robin was hopping about on a bough near by looking for his
breakfast. Barbara opened the window and threw out some crumbs.
“It is all lovely, lovely,” she said. “Don’t forget about the tree this
morning, Dick. Let it be a right royal one for the sake of dear little
Piers. I am going to give the Christmas tree in his memory, and I mean
to talk about him to the children.”
Pelham said nothing, and a thoughtful look passed over his face. For a
moment his eyes became full of gloom, but Barbara was too happy in her
own reflections to notice this.
“Good-by, dear,” she said. “I must hurry off. I have to give some
directions about mother’s room, and I shall try to catch the 11.10
train.”
She ran out of the room singing a light song under her breath. Dick
Pelham stood for a moment where she had left him. Then, whistling to his
dogs, he went out.
For the rest of the morning many duties kept him busy, for he was an
ideal landlord, and looked into the smallest details himself, but he
found time to see Barbara off on her expedition to Exeter. She was to
drive to the station, about four miles away.
“God bless her!” said Pelham as he watched the ponies, with their
ringing bells, trot down the avenue and then disappear from view. His
dogs still following him, he sauntered down the avenue. He was to meet
his steward within an hour, but there was still plenty of time. He had
gone about a hundred yards when an old man was seen hobbling up the
drive.
“Well, Crayshaw, and what do you want?” said Dick, pausing in his walk.
The old man gazed up at him with bleared and red eyes.
“You’ve got over it, and I’m glad,” he remarked.
“Got over it! Got over what? What do you mean, my good fellow?”
“It’s nigh upon the blessed Christmas, the birth of Christ, and I want
to unburden my soul. I listened when I ought not.”
“You listened! What do you mean?”
“I saw you, Sir Richard, that night you went down into the vault, the
night the child was buried. I saw you, and what’s more, I heard you. You
was ter’ble upset. For a man who had just come in for a title and a lot
of money, you was upset past natural. Yes, yes. I saw it and I heard,
and I want to unburden my soul now. You was ter’ble upset, Sir Richard.”
Pelham colored with annoyance.
“Where did you say you were?” he asked after a pause.
“Just ahint the old yew tree. Oh, I never told, never except once, and
that to an old woman, a strange old body who didn’t know these parts.
She come here a month back. I told her and she was ter’ble interested.
It was wonderful for a man like you to go right down into the vault, and
then to groan. Your groans down there was enough to turn a body’s head.
I won’t deny that the frights didn’t take hold of me, for they did, and
I run home with my hands to my ears and trusting that none of the
sperrits of the dead and gone Pelhams would come after me. But you’re
better now, you’re all right now. You has accepted your riches in a
thankful sperrit, and that’s as it ought to be.”
“Yes, things are as they ought to be,” said Pelham after a pause. “See,
here, Crayshaw, don’t talk about this matter. I will own that I was much
upset that time. Here’s a sovereign for you. You understand what I mean,
Crayshaw—keep your own counsel.”
“A word to the wise is allers enough,” mumbled the old man out of his
almost toothless gums. He clutched hold of the sovereign and slipped it
into his pocket. As he hobbled away he said to himself—
“Seems to me this ’ere secret of mine is going to become valuable. I got
a shilling from that old woman, and here’s a sovrin now from the
guv’nor. I’ll make use of this secret seems to me.”
He hobbled away to find the nearest public-house, in order to spend a
portion of the money. As he sipped his mug of beer he nodded
mysteriously to his companions and told them that he had suddenly
discovered a little mine of gold, but he did not tell them what it was;
he only excited their curiosity to a considerable extent.
As the old man disappeared up the avenue Pelham turned to the left. He
did not know himself why he did so, but the old man’s words had
disturbed him and brought back some of the melancholy which had caused
his early married days to be so miserable.
“What a fool I was!” he said to himself. “It was really a case of
nerves, for if ever a man was possessed of a mad frenzy to his own
undoing, I was that fellow. I felt certain when I went down into that
vault that a murdered child lay there. The thought maddened me. Money
was nothing to me, even Barbara did not seem of the slightest
consequence. To win her was little to me then. I was full of the one
sole maddening fear that Piers had come by his death by foul means. But
those two great consultants in London set me straight, and the chemist
finished the business. It is odd though that I still distrust Tarbot.
“What did he come sneaking down here about, and why did Mrs. Pelham go
off to town so suddenly? I hate the man still and I distrust him more
than ever. He would do me a mischief if he could—not a doubt of that. By
the way—I am sorry old Crayshaw heard me groaning in the vault.” Dick
paused in his rapid thoughts to go up to the tomb of his ancestors and
bend over it. “By the way,” he considered, “Barbara wishes to have the
service in the chapel on Christmas Day. I may as well look in and see if
it is all right.”
He entered the chapel, the door of which stood open, and went and stood
under the tablet. He read the inscription to little Piers. It was a
simple one, and a suitable verse of Scripture was engraved under it. He
turned on his heel and went out.
In spite of himself, and very much to his own wonder, he found little by
little his good spirits slipping away from him. He could not account for
this, but he had to admit that it was the case. He entered the little
churchyard, and crossed again to where the gloomy vault of the Pelhams
stood.
“What a hideous place!” he said to himself. “How improved are the modern
ideas with regard to burial!”
As he stood close to the vault, with his hand resting on the stone which
contained inscriptions to his dead and gone ancestors, he thought again
of that night of terror when he had gone down the steps and passed the
gloomy portals. He remembered the look of the place as the lantern threw
its strong light upon it, the coffins ranged on their shelves, some on
the floor. He remembered that he had trampled on the rotten boards, some
of which creaked under his weight. Finally he had stood close to the
shelf where the coffin of the youngest baronet of the house had just
been placed. He recalled it all now—the damp feel of the place, the
weird light from his lantern, his own grief and oppression, nay, even
terror.
“I must have been mad at the time,” he said to himself. As he said the
words a hand was laid on his arm. He turned quickly. A man in plain
clothes, a total stranger, was standing near him.
“Am I right in supposing that I am addressing Sir Richard Pelham?” asked
the man.
“That is my name,” said Dick. He started back as he spoke. “Who are
you?” he continued. “I do not know your face.”
“I am a stranger to these parts, sir; but I have come here to say a word
to you.”
As the man spoke he slipped his hand into his pocket and took out
something.
“My mate is waiting outside,” he said gravely, “and I have got a
dog-cart handy. I have a warrant here for your arrest, sir.”
“For my arrest?” cried Pelham.
“Yes, Sir Richard, for your arrest on suspicion of having murdered the
late Sir Piers Pelham.”
The words fell on Dick’s ears without at first conveying any impression.
The man repeated them.
“You had better come quietly, sir,” he continued. “As I said just now, I
have a trap outside, and if we drive off at once to Haversham station we
can take the next train to town. Anything you say now, sir, will be used
against you, so you had best be silent.
“Stop a minute. I must think,” said Pelham. He took off his soft cap and
put up his hand to his forehead as if to brush away some hair. His brain
was in a whirl, but his first consecutive and clear thought was for
Barbara. When she returned home that night he would not be there; she
would miss him, she would wonder what had become of him.
“Of course there is a mistake,” thought the young man. “I don’t quite
comprehend it, but Barbara, whatever happens, must not be frightened.”
He turned and looked at the man who had come to arrest him.
“I will go with you, of course,” he said. “The matter will doubtless be
cleared up immediately, but I should like first to leave a note for my
wife. Do you permit it?”
“Yes, sir, provided I come with you to the house.”
“You need not do that,” said Pelham. He shrugged his shoulders, took his
pocket-book out of his pocket, tore a leaf from it and wrote a few
words.
“DARLING,—I am called to town on sudden business. Do not be uneasy. I
hope to return to-morrow.
“Yours, DICK.”
He folded the note and gave it to a gardener who was passing.
“Take this to the house,” he said, “and tell the servants to deliver it
to your mistress when she returns.”
The man took it without the least apparent curiosity and went away. Then
Pelham turned to the police constable.
“I am at your service,” he said. “I presume you will not think it
necessary to handcuff me?”
“I think you are to be trusted, sir,” said the man.
Pelham nodded, and the ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. A
moment later he was driving to Haversham in the company of the two
police constables. When they reached the station they took tickets in a
third-class compartment; one of them tipped the guard to allow them to
have it to themselves.
Dick sat in a corner and kept looking out at the landscape. Surely this
was a dream, and he would wake presently to find it was so. His thoughts
were busy, but not greatly with himself. He felt a certain sense of
satisfaction. His old suspicions were right—there was something
unnatural about the death of the child. It was strange why he was
arrested. Of course, he was the wrong man—Tarbot was the guilty person.
Why had they arrested him? This journey was unpleasant, but to-morrow,
at the farthest, before the magistrate, he, Dick Pelham, would be
abundantly cleared. Tarbot, beyond doubt, was the guilty person.