Too often, clad in radiant vest,
Deceitfully goes forth the morn;
Too often evening in the west
Sinks, smilingly forsworn.
WORDSWORTH.
Claud Cranmer stood still in the road, watching the carriage till it
disappeared round a bend in the winding way.
Then he turned, and gravely surveyed the scene of action. The hedge on
one side of the lane--the side on which they had found Allonby--was
broken and full of gaps. The lane on this side was skirted, first by a
hay-field, and further on by the piece of ground known as the "Waste,"
through which, as has been before stated, an oblique footpath led to the
wicket-gate in Mrs. Battishill's flower-garden.
Persons crossing this Waste were in full view of the windows of Poole.
The field which adjoined the Waste was to be cut to-morrow. It was full
of tall rich grass, through which no mortal could have passed without
leaving most evident traces of his passage behind him.
On the further side of the lane was a very tall, quick-set hedge, thick
and compact, without a hole or a rent anywhere. Below it was a deep
ditch, along the brink of which Mr. Cranmer walked, eyeing the long
grasses and weeds keenly for the smallest trace of trampling or
disorder.
There was none.
Crossing the road again, he sat down on the stile leading to the Waste,
and reflected.
Jane and Miss Brabourne had come up the lane from the direction of Edge
Combe. They had crossed this piece of ground, noticed the artist at
work, and proceeded to the farm beyond. In about half-an-hour they had
returned by the road, to find the outrage committed and no traces of the
robber to be seen.
It appeared unlikely, then, to say the least of it, that this robber
should have come from the direction of Poole Farm.
Any loitering man would have been noticed by them as they passed; there
was not a single clump of bush on the Waste large enough to conceal a
man from the view of anyone crossing by the footpath. It seemed also to
Mr. Cranmer to be exceedingly improbable that the villain should have
approached along the road by which the carriage had come--that is to
say, that he had been walking _towards_ Edge Combe, because the artist
had been sitting directly facing anyone who came from that direction,
and must have seen and noticed a passer-by on that lonely road.
Probability then suggested it as most likely that the tramp, or whoever
it was, who had struck to such purpose, had approached his victim from
the direction of the village of Edge Combe--had simply walked along the
lane, come up behind the unsuspecting artist, and without warning
administered the blow on the head, which was quite enough to leave the
strongest man helpless in his hands. Of course, it was all mere
speculation, still, it might afford a clue; for, if a stranger, a tramp,
or a suspicious-looking person had passed through the village that
afternoon, he was certain to have been noticed, and probably there were
several who could identify such a one.
Then, if he had approached along the lane, how had he escaped?
Most probably by simply walking on along the solitary lane till he came
to the high-road. Here was another negative piece of evidence. If this
had been his course, he must, when he reached the high-road, have turned
to the right, towards Stanton, because Lady Mabel and her brother,
driving from Philmouth, must have met him if he had turned to the left;
and Mr. Cranmer clearly recollected that they had met no such person.
All this, of course, was very elementary reasoning; because there were a
thousand places in which a tramp might have concealed himself, out of
the main road. Yet it appeared to the young man likely that one who
presumed sufficiently on the isolation of the neighborhood to commit
such an assault in broad daylight, almost within view of the windows of
a large farmhouse, would be hardy enough to adopt the course of simply
walking off down the road after securing his booty,--a far safer plan
and less likely to attract suspicion than skulking in fields or
outhouses.
But, altogether, the more he thought of it, the more incredible, the
more outrageous the whole thing appeared to be.
Surely the artist would not be likely to have enough of value on him
during a sketching-tour, to make the robbing of him worth such an
enormous hazard! His costume, as Claud remembered, had been simplicity
itself--white flannel shirt and trousers, with rough, short grey coat
and cloth helmet.
He would carry a watch and chain--most likely; a signet ring--very
probably. About a pound's worth of loose silver; aggregate value of
entire spoils, perhaps ten pounds, for the watch would be very likely
silver, or the chain worthless. Could there be more--far more in the
affair than met the eye? Could this artist be a man who had enemies? Was
there some wildly sensational tale of hatred and vengeance underlying
the mysterious circumstances?
Claud pondered, as he raised his neat brown felt hat and wiped his
forehead. He was overcome with a desire to see and question the victim.
From him something might be ascertained, at least, of the plan of
attack.
He set out to walk to Poole Farm, remarking casually to himself, in a
depressed way, that nature never intended him for a detective.
"But I wonder what a detective would have done under the circumstances?"
he mused. "I could not observe mysterious footprints in the grass near,
for Miss Brabourne's well-meaning but clumsy handmaiden had trodden it
all flat by the time I arrived on the scene. I have examined the road
and banks for shreds of evidence. I have picked up a hairpin, which I
have reason to believe is Miss Brabourne's. Ought I to put it in my
pocket-book to show to the real _bona-fide_ detective when he arrives on
the scene? It would hardly be of service, I suppose, to preserve any of
the blood? Ought I to have left the paints and messes in the exact order
in which they fell, I wonder? It's too late to reflect on that now,
however," he added, with a glance at the paint-box, which he carried
strapped up in one hand, the easel being over his shoulder. The
beautiful calmness of the evening seemed to him horribly at variance
with the tragedy just enacted. "It's like that funny hymn which little
Peggy sings,
'Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.'
Certainly man in his worst aspect is a contemptible reptile," he sighed,
as he walked up the little pebble walk, where the wall-flowers drowned
the air with sweetness.
Inside, in the kitchen, a lively scene presented itself. Mrs.
Battishill, having deposited the sick man in bed, had just come down for
towels and hot water, and was flying from linen-press to boiler-tap with
a volley of words and some agitation. Her daughter Clara, a slight,
delicate girl who would have been pretty had she not attempted to be
fashionable, wearing steels in her dress, and a large imitation gold
watch chain, was trying somewhat feebly to help her mother, and holding
the kettle so unsteadily that the water splashed on the clean flags. A
group of men and boys stood round awestruck, anxious to glean every bit
of information that could be given.
There was a murmur as Claud appeared, and everyone made room for him to
enter.
"Missis--here be the London gentleman," said a great benevolent-looking
laborer who stood near the door.
"Eh? Oh, come in, sir. Declare I near forgot you in the hurry of it.
Saul, my boy, take the things from the gentleman, there's a dearr lamb."
A tall boy about sixteen came forward, and held out his hands for the
easel with a lovely smile.
Mr. Cranmer resigned his burden with a momentary admiration of the
beauty of the West of England peasantry, and came forward to where Mrs.
Battishill was standing.
"As I was saying, sir, I grudges nothing; the time, nor the food, nor
the bed, nor anything; but if he could have managed to fall ill at any
other time than right on top o' my hay harvest! Lord knows how I'm going
to du! There'll be thirty men to feed to-morrow, sir, count heads all
round, and it's one woman's work to get ready the victuals, I can tell
you, and Clara and the gal doing everything wrong if I so much as turns
my head away! And if I'm to be up all night----"
He was able to calm her considerably with the hope of the village
nurse's speedy arrival, and was on the point of asking to go up and see
the patient, when a clatter of hoofs was heard, and the doctor appeared
on the scene.
He was a rough, surly, middle-aged man, totally without any modern ideas
of comfort or consideration, but with broken limbs and broken heads he
was in his element, for he had a sharp practice amongst the quarrymen.
Mrs. Battishill went upstairs with him, and Claud sat on the
kitchen-table, swinging his legs.
"Clara," said he, "I am most fearfully hungry."
A giggle went round the assembly, as Clara, blushing rosy red, ran to
get him some bread and cream, and a draught of cider.
"This is food for the gods," said the hungry Claud, as he covered his
bread thickly with scalded cream. "This is indeed a land flowing with
milk and honey."
"I can get yer some hooney tu, if yer wants it," murmured Clara, very
low, with drooping eyes.
"No, no, I was only speaking metaphorically," said he, laughing. "How
old are you, Clara?"
"A'm seventeen, sirr."
"Ah! That's a fine age. And how old's your brother?"
"A've tu broothers, sirr."
"Oh, two--which be they?" said Claud, wiping his lips, and surveying his
admiring audience.
The two Battishills stepped forward, grinning.
"Oh! isn't that tall fellow with the light hair your brother?" he said,
indicating the boy whom Mrs. Battishill had called Saul.
She shook her head, and there was a general titter, while the words
"sorft," "innocent," could be heard, by which means he gradually
gathered that Saul was the village idiot, at home everywhere and beloved
everywhere. Finding himself the object of general attention, the boy
crept behind Clara, who was a head shorter than he, and hid his face in
her neck till only his beautiful golden curls were visible.
She leaned back, her arms on his hips, blushing and laughing.
"He's turrible shy with strangers," she said, "he can't bear 'em. Stan'
up straight, thee girt fule, Saul!"
Claud thought it as picturesque an interior as Teniers ever painted. The
great hearth, with its seats each side of the chimney, the glowing
fire, the white washed walls, the shining tins on the dresser, the
amused, absorbed faces of the peasantry, and through the open door a
waft of pure air with a glimpse of trees and evening sky.
He turned next to Joe Battishill, a comely young man of one and twenty.
"What do you think of this affair?" he asked. "You know these parts--I
don't. Has such a thing ever happened before?"
There was a chorus of "No!" and at least half a dozen started forward to
vindicate their country side of such a charge. All were convinced that
it was the work of some tramp, and then Claud proceeded to give them his
ideas on the subject. It was agreed that the stranger spoke sound sense,
and several volunteered to organize search parties. This was just what
he wanted them to do, and he despatched some towards Edge Combe, some
along the highroad to Stanton, and with these last he sent a scribbled
note, enclosing his card, to the Stanton constabulary.
He begged them to watch every tramp, every suspicious character that
passed through the town. Just as he was in the act of writing, and
waxing quite excited in his converse with the men, the doctor was heard
lumbering downstairs.
A dozen eager faces darted forward to hear the news, but the doctor
marched in solemn silence through the group, and took up his position in
front of the great fire, facing the assembly.
"A won't speak a worrd till he's had his ciderr," whispered Mrs.
Battishill to Claud, and Clara went flying past him into the cellar.
Meanwhile Dr. Forbes' sharp eyes had travelled round the room till they
rested on Claud, and the two stood staring at one another in a manner
irresistibly comic to the latter.
Certainly Mr. Cranmer introduced a foreign element into the society, an
element the doctor would scarcely be prepared to find in Mrs.
Battishill's kitchen. He was not above middle height, and slightly
built. In complexion he was somewhat fair, with closely cropped, smooth
dust-colored hair and moustache, and a pale face. His eyes were grey and
usually half shut, and he might have been any age you please, from five
and twenty to forty. He had no pretence to good looks of any kind, but
he possessed an elegance not very easy to describe--a grace of bearing,
a gentleness of manner, a readiness of speech, which no doubt he owed to
his Irish origin. He was a conspicuously neat person, never rumpled,
never disarrayed, and now, after his very unusual exertions, his collar
and tie were in perfect order, his fresh, quiet, light suit was
spotless, and his neat brown felt "bowler" lay on the table at his side
without even a flack of dust.
His glass was in his eye, and he held a piece of bread and cream in his
hand. Feeling the doctor's eyes upon him, he deliberately ate a
mouthful; then, rising his mug of cider:
"I drink your good health, sir," he said. "How do you find your
patient?"
"My patient, sir," said Dr. Forbes, in a loud, resonant voice, "has had
as foul usage as ever I saw in my life. He'll pull through, he has a
splendid constitution. I never saw a finer physique; but he'll have a
fight for it."
At this point Clara brought up the cider, which the doctor drained at
one long steady pull, after which he wiped his large expressive mouth.
"If the blow on his head had been as hard as those that followed it,
he'd have been a dead man by now," he said presently. "But luckily it
was not. It was only strong enough to stun him. But there's a broken arm
and a couple of broken ribs, and wounds and contusions all over him.
Sir, if the weapon employed had equalled the goodwill of him who
employed it, there would have been a fine funeral here at Edge Combe
to-morrow."
"Then," said Claud, eagerly, "what do you think the blows were inflicted
with?"
"A stick--a cudgel of some sort," said the doctor, "but I'll swear they
were given by a novice--by a man that didn't know where to hit, but just
slashed at the prostrate carcase promiscuously. Why, if that first blow
on the head had been followed by another to match--there would have been
the business done at once! But I can't conceive the motive--that's what
baffles me, sir."
"But--don't you think the motive was robbery?" cried Claud, excitedly.
"What did he rob him of?" said the doctor; and opening his enormous
hand, he showed a handsome gold watch and chain, a ring with a sunk
diamond in it, a sovereign or two, and some loose silver.