THE BOOK OF EXTRACTS
Leonard turned up his light in the study. His eye fell upon the Book of
Extracts. He looked at his watch. Nearly twelve. He took up the book
resolutely. Another wave of loathing rolled over his mind. He beat it
back; he forced himself to open the book, and to begin from the
beginning.
The contents consisted, as he had already seen, of cuttings from a
newspaper, with a connecting narrative in writing. On the title-page was
written in a fine Italian hand the following brief explanation:
“This book was given to me by Mrs. Nicols, our housekeeper for thirty
years. She cut out from the newspapers all that was printed about the
crime and what followed. There are accounts of the Murder, the Inquest,
and the Trial. She also added notes of her own on what she herself
remembered and had seen. She made two cuttings of each extract, and two
copies of her own notes; these she pasted in two scrap-books. She gave
me one; the other I found in her room after her death. I sent the latter
copy to my brother three days before he committed suicide.”
This statement was signed “Lucy Galley, née Campaigne.” The extracts and
cuttings followed. Some of the less necessary details are here
suppressed.
The first extract was from the weekly paper of the nearest county town:
“We are grieved to report the occurrence of a crime which brings the
deepest disgrace upon our neighbourhood, hitherto remarkably free from
acts of violence. The victim is a young gentleman, amiable and respected
by everyone--Mr. Langley Holme, of Westerdene House, near the town of
Amersham.
“The unfortunate gentleman had been staying for some days at the house
of his brother-in-law, Mr. Algernon Campaigne, J.P., of Campaigne Park.
On Tuesday, May 18, as will be seen from our Report of the Inquest, the
two gentlemen started together for a walk after breakfast. It was about
ten o’clock: they walked across the Park, they crossed the highroad
beyond, they climbed over a stile into a large field, and they walked
together along the pathway through the field, as far as a small wood
which lies at the bottom of the field. Then Mr. Campaigne remembered
some forgotten business or appointment and left his friend, returning by
himself. When Mr. Holme was discovered--it is not yet quite certain how
long after Mr. Campaigne left him, but it was certainly two hours--he
was lying on the ground quite dead, his head literally battered in by a
thick club--the branch of a tree either pulled off for the purpose, or
lying on the ground ready to the hand of the murderer. They carried the
body back to the house where he had been staying.
“It is sad to relate that the unfortunate man’s sister, Mr. Campaigne’s
wife, was so shocked by the news, which seems to have been announced or
shouted roughly, and without any precaution about breaking it gently,
that she was seized with the pains of labour, and in an hour was dead.
Thus the unfortunate gentleman, Mr. Algernon Campaigne, himself quite
young, has been deprived in one moment, so to speak, of wife and
brother-in-law. Mr. Langley Holme was also a married man, and leaves one
young child, a daughter, to weep with her mother over their irreparable
loss. The Inquest was held on Wednesday morning.”
Then followed a passage in writing:
“I was in my own room, the housekeeper’s room, which is the last room of
the south wing on the ground-floor overlooking the garden; there is an
entrance to the house at that end for servants and things brought to the
house. At ten o’clock in the morning, just after the clock in the
stables struck, I saw the master with Mr. Langley Holme walking across
the Terrace, down the gardens, and so to the right into the park. They
were talking together friendly and full of life, being, both of them,
young gentlemen of uncommon vivacity and spirit; with a temper, too,
both of them, as becomes the master of such a place as his, which cannot
be ruled by a meek and lowly one, but calls for a high spirit and a
temper becoming and masterful.
“Three-quarters of an hour afterwards I heard steps in the garden, and
looked up from my work. It was the master coming home alone. He was
walking fast, and he was swinging his arms, as I’d often seen him do.
Now I think of it, his face was pale. One would think that he had a
presentiment. He entered the house by the garden door and went into his
study.
“Now, this morning, my lady, when we called her, was not at all well,
and the question was whether we should send for the doctor at once. But
she refused to consent, saying that it would pass away. And so she took
breakfast in bed; but I was far from easy about her. I wish now, with
all my heart, that I had sent a note to the doctor, who lived three
miles away, if it was only for him to have driven over. Besides, as
things turned out, he might have been with her when the news came.
“However, about twelve o’clock, or a little after, I heard steps in the
garden, and I saw a sight which froze my very blood. For four men were
carrying a shutter, walking slowly; and on the shutter was a blanket,
and beneath the blanket was a form. Oh! there is no mistaking such a
form as that--it was a human form. My heart fell, I say, like lead, and
I ran out crying:
“‘Oh! in God’s name, what has happened?’
“Said one of them, John Dunning by name:
“‘It’s Mr. Holme. I found him dead. Someone’s murdered him.’
“I screeched. I ran back to the house; I ran into the kitchen; I told
them, never thinking, in the horror of it, of my poor lady.
“Then all over the house, suddenly, the air was filled with the shrieks
of women.
“Alas! my lady had got up; she was dressed: she was on the landing; she
heard the cries.
“‘What has happened?’ she asked.
“‘Mr. Holme is murdered.’
“I do not know who told her. None of the maids confessed the thing, but
when she heard the news she fell back, all of a sudden, like a woman
knocked down.
“We took her up and carried her to bed. When the doctor came in an hour
my lady was dead--the most beautiful, the kindest, the sweetest, most
generous-hearted lady that ever lived. She was dead, and all we could do
was to look after the new-born babe. And as for her husband, that poor
gentleman sat in his study with haggard looks and face all drawn with
his grief, so that it was a pity and a terror to look upon him. Wife and
brother-in-law--wife and friend--both cut off in a single morning! Did
one ever hear the like? As for the unfortunate victim, Mr. Holme that
had been, they laid him in the dining-room to wait the inquest.”
At this point Leonard laid down the book and looked round. The place was
quite quiet. Even from the street there came no noise of footsteps or
of wheels. Once more he was overpowered by this strange loathing--a kind
of sickness. He closed his eyes and lay back. Before him, as in a vivid
dream, he saw that procession with the body of the murdered man; and he
saw the murdered lady fall shrieking to the ground; and he saw the old
recluse of the Park, then young, sitting alone, with haggard face, while
one body lay in the dining-room and the other on the marriage-bed.
The feeling of sickness passed away. Leonard opened his eyes and forced
himself, but with a beating heart and a dreadful feeling of
apprehension, to go on with the reading:
“I remember that the house was very quiet, so quiet that we could hear
in my room--the housekeeper’s room--the cries and shouts of the two
little boys in the nursery, which was the room next to where the mother
lay dead. The boys were Master Langley, the eldest, who was three, and
Master Christopher, then a year and a half.
“Little did those innocents understand of the trouble that was coming
upon them from the terrible tragedy of that day. They would grow up
without a mother--the most terrible calamity that can befall a child:
and they were to grow up, as well, without a father, for the master has
never recovered the shock, and now, I fear, never will.
“On the Wednesday morning, the next day, the Coroner came with his jury
and held the inquest. They viewed the body in the dining-room. I was
present and heard it all. The report of the paper is tolerably accurate,
so far as I remember.”
The newspaper began again at this point:
“On Wednesday last, the 19th inst., an inquest was held at Campaigne
Park on the body of Langley Holme, Esquire, Justice of the Peace, of
Westerdene House, near Amersham, aged twenty-eight years. The
unfortunate gentleman, as narrated in our last number, was found dead
under circumstances that pointed directly to murder, in a wood not far
from Campaigne Park, where he was staying as the guest of his friend and
brother-in-law, Mr. Algernon Campaigne.
“The cause of death was certified by Dr. Alden. He deposed that it was
caused by a single blow from a heavy club or branch which had probably
been picked up close by. The club was lying on the table--a jagged
branch thick at one end, which was red with blood. The nature of the
wound showed that it was one blow only, and that by a most determined
and resolute hand, which had caused death, and that death must have been
instantaneous.
“Mr. Algernon Campaigne, J.P., of Campaigne Park, deposed that the
deceased, named Langley Holme, his brother-in-law--his wife’s brother,
and his most intimate friend--was staying with them, and that on Tuesday
morning the two started together after breakfast for a walk. They walked
through the park, crossed the road, got over the stile on the other
side, and followed the pathway under the hill. They were entering the
wood in which the body was found when he himself recollected a letter
which had to be written and posted that morning. He therefore stopped
and explained that he must return immediately. Unfortunately, his
brother-in-law chose to continue his walk alone. Mr. Campaigne turned
and walked home as quickly as he could. He saw the deceased no more
until he was brought back dead.
“The Coroner asked him if he had observed anyone in the wood: he said he
had not looked about him carefully, but that he had seen nobody.
“A little boy, who gave the name of Tommy Dadd, and said that he knew
the meaning of an oath, deposed that he was on the hillside scaring
birds all day; that he saw the two gentlemen get over the stile, walk
along the footpath together, talking fast and loud; that they came to
the wood, and that one of them, Mr. Campaigne, turned back; that he
looked up and down the path as if he was expecting somebody, and then
walked away very fast.
“‘Stop!’ said the Coroner. ‘Let us understand these facts quite plainly.
You saw Mr. Campaigne and the deceased get over the stile and walk as
far as the wood?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘And you saw Mr. Campaigne turn back and walk away?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘Go on, then.’
“‘A long time after that I see John Dunning walking from the farm across
the field to the pathway; he was carrying a basket of something over his
shoulder; he wore his smock-frock. He went into the wood, too. Presently
he came out and ran back to the farm-yard, and three other men came and
carried something away.’
“‘Did nobody else go into the wood?’
“‘No; nobody.’
“John Dunning said that he was a labourer; that on the day in question
he was on his way to some work, and had to pass through the wood; that
half-way through he came upon what he thought was a man asleep. When he
looked closer, he found that it was a gentleman, and he was dead, and he
lay in a pool of blood. There was no scuffle of feet or sign of a
struggle. That he tried to lift him, getting his hands and frock covered
with blood-stains; that he found a bit of rough and jagged wood lying
beside the body, which was covered with blood at one end; that on making
this discovery he ran out of the wood, and made his way as fast as he
could to the nearest farm, where he gave the alarm, and got four men to
come with him, carrying a shutter and a blanket.
“The Coroner cross-examined this witness severely. Where did he work?
Was he a native of the village? Had he ever been in trouble? What was it
he was carrying on his shoulder? Would he swear it was not the club that
had been found near the body?
“To all these questions the man gave a straightforward answer.
“The Coroner then asked him if he had searched the pockets of the
deceased.
“At this point the deceased’s valet stood up, and said that his master
had not been robbed; that his watch and rings and purse were all found
upon him in his pockets.
“‘I presume that the murderer had no time,’ said the Coroner. ‘He must
have been disturbed. I never yet heard of a murder that was not a
robbery, unless, indeed, there was revenge in it.’
“Mr. Campaigne interposed. ‘I would suggest, Mr. Coroner,’ he said,
‘with submission----’
“‘Sir,’ said the Coroner, ‘your suggestions are instructions.’
“‘I venture, then, to suggest that perhaps there may have been some
person or persons unknown in the wood. The boy’s evidence was
straightforward, but he could not see through the wood.’
“‘That is true. Call up the parish constable.’
“This officer stood up to give evidence. He was asked if there were any
dangerous or suspicious persons in or near the village; if he had seen
any tramps, sturdy vagabonds, gipsies, or, in fact, any persons who
might reasonably be suspected of this outrage.
“There was no one. The village, he said, was quite quiet and well
behaved.
“He was asked if there were poachers about. He said there were
poachers, whom he knew very well, and so did his Honour’s gamekeeper;
but in the month of May there was little or nothing to poach, and no
excuse for going into the wood. Besides, why should they go into the
wood at ten in the morning? He was quite confident that the village
poachers had nothing to do with the business.
“‘My suggestion, sir,’ said Mr. Campaigne, ‘seems unproductive.
Nevertheless, there was the chance that the mystery might be explained
if we could in this way light upon a clue.’
“‘There is another way of explanation,’ said the Coroner grimly.
“He put other questions to the constable. Had he seen any gipsies or
tramps about the village or on the road? The constable declared that he
had seen none: that the village, lying as it did off the main road, from
which it was not even visible, did not attract gipsies or tramps or
vagabonds of any description.
“Had the constable observed any case of drunkenness? He had not: there
were men who sometimes took more beer than was good for them, but they
carried their liquor peaceably and did not become quarrelsome in their
cups.
“‘We come next,’ said the Coroner, ‘to the question whether the deceased
gentleman had any private enmities to fear?’
“To this Mr. Campaigne made reply: ‘My brother-in-law, sir, was a man
who may have made enemies as a magistrate, especially among poachers;
but if so, these enemies would be all in his own part of the county,
fifteen miles away. In this place he could have had neither friends nor
enemies.’
“‘Then, gentlemen of the jury,’ said the Coroner, ‘we can find no motive
for the crime. I said just now that there was another explanation
possible. We can put aside the theory of poachers being disturbed at
their work: and the theory of private enmity: and the theory of tramp or
gipsy attacking him for the sake of robbery. We come back therefore to
the broad facts. At ten in the morning the deceased entered the
wood--alone. At twelve the man Dunning ran out, his smock-frock covered
with blood. He said that he had found the dead body of this gentleman
lying on the grass, and he had tried to lift it, getting his smock-frock
stained with blood in doing so. Now, gentlemen, what was the good of
trying to lift a dead body? On the other hand, suppose that a man,
finding this gentleman unarmed, perhaps asleep, conceived the sudden
thought of killing him for the sake of taking his money: suppose him to
have been disturbed, or to have thought himself disturbed--it might be
by the bird-scaring boy--what would he do? Naturally he would give the
alarm, and pretend that the crime was committed by another man. You,
gentlemen of the jury, will form your own conclusion. You will return
such a verdict as seems to you reasonable, leaving further investigation
to the Law. Far be it from me to suggest your verdict or to influence
your judgment. You have now to consider how and by whom this murder--as
clear a case of murder as has ever been known--was committed.’
“The jury considered their verdict for half an hour. They then returned
a verdict of wilful murder against John Dunning.
“The man was standing alone by this time: everybody shunned him. When
the verdict was given, he cried out, ‘No! No! I never done it! I never
done it!’ passionately, or with some show of passion.
“The constable arrested him on the spot. After the first ejaculation the
man became quite passive, and made no kind of resistance. The Coroner
turned to Mr. Campaigne.
“‘You are a magistrate, sir. You can formally commit the man for trial.’
“‘I commit this man?’ the bereaved gentleman seemed to have difficulty
in understanding the matter. However, he came to himself, and performed
his duties mechanically.
“The man, John Dunning, now lies in gaol, awaiting his trial. We would
not say anything to forejudge the case, but it certainly looks black, so
far, against the accused.”
To this the housekeeper added: “The Coroner’s Court was full, and a
sorrowful sight it was to see the master, tall and handsome and upright,
but ashy pale. On the same day, in the afternoon, they buried both the
brother and the sister in the parish church. They lie side by side in
the chancel.”
Then followed the report of the trial of John Dunning. Part of it is a
repetition of the evidence heard at the inquest. He was defended by
counsel, and a very able counsel, too--a young man who had taken the
greatest pains to get up the case. Leonard knew the name. Later on he
had become a judge. The cross-examination was keen and searching. Every
little point was made the most of.
The Report gave at full length all the evidence and the speeches. In
this place it is sufficient to give the most important questions and
answers.
The counsel had a map of the wood. He made a great deal out of this map.
He called attention to distances; for instance, it would take five
minutes only to get from the wood to the farm. On these points he
cross-examined Mr. Campaigne closely.
“‘I believe it is a small wood--little more than a coppice?’
“‘It is very little more than a coppice.’
“‘How long, now, would it take you to walk through the wood from end to
end?’
“‘Not five minutes.’
“‘Are there any seats in the wood--any places where a man might sit
down?’
“‘None.’
“‘Did your friend express any intention of lingering in the wood, or was
there any reason why he should linger in the wood?’
“‘No, certainly not. He entered the wood at a quick pace, and, so far as
I know, he intended to keep it up. He was walking partly for exercise
and partly to look at the condition of the fields.’
“‘There were no seats in the wood.’ The counsel returned to the point.
‘Were there any fallen trees to sit down upon?’
“‘Not to my knowledge.’
“‘Was it a morning for lying down on the grass?’
“‘No; there had been rain; the path was muddy and the grass was wet.’
“‘Did you suppose that the deceased would loiter about in the wet wood,
in the mud and in the long grass in the wood, for two long hours?’
“‘I do not. I think it most improbable--even impossible.’
“‘Your suggestion is that there was someone lurking in the wood?’
“‘Everything points to that, in my opinion.’
“‘Otherwise, on the theory of the prosecution, your brother-in-law must
have stood in the wood, doing nothing for nearly two hours; because
nobody disputes the fact that the prisoner entered the wood a little
before twelve.’
“‘That is so, I think.’
“‘I am sorry to press you, Mr. Campaigne, on a subject so painful, but I
have a life to save. Do you suppose that your friend was one who would
be likely to yield up his life without a struggle?’
“‘Certainly not. He was a strong and resolute man.’
“‘Again, look at the prisoner,’ who was not more than five feet five.
‘Do you suppose that your friend would stand still to be killed by a
little man like that?’
“‘It is absurd to suppose anything of the kind.’
“‘He might have been taken unawares, but then the blow would have been
at the back of the head. Now, it was in the front. Do you suppose it
possible that this labouring man should on entering the wood suddenly
resolve upon taking a strange gentleman’s life without a motive, not
even with the hope of plunder?--should rush upon him, find him off his
guard, and succeed in taking his life without receiving a blow or a
scratch?’
“‘I certainly do not. I consider the thing absolutely impossible.’
“‘Do you suppose that, if all these improbabilities or impossibilities
had taken place, the man would have run back covered with blood to tell
what he had found, and to pretend that some other man had done it?’
“‘I certainly do not.’
“The boy, who had already given his evidence, was recalled.
“‘How long was it after Mr. Holme went into the wood before John Dunning
went in?’
“‘It was a long time.’
“‘We know the facts already,’ said the Judge; ‘the two gentlemen went
out at ten; they would reach the wood, according to this map, about
fifteen minutes past ten; the dead body was brought home a little after
noon. Therefore, as the prisoner was only a few minutes in the wood, it
must have been about twenty minutes to twelve that he went in.’
“‘And remained, my lord, no more than a few minutes.’
“‘So it would seem from the evidence. Much mischief, however, may be
done in a few minutes.’
“The counsel recalled the doctor.
“‘When you saw the body it was, I think you said, a little before one
o’clock.’
“‘That is so.’
“‘The body was then quite stiff and dead, you say?’
“‘Quite. It had been dead some time--perhaps two hours.’
“‘It had been dead two hours. You are quite sure?’
“‘I will not swear to the exact time. I will say a long while.’
“‘If the boy’s evidence as to the time occupied by the prisoner in the
wood is correct, death would have been caused a few minutes before the
men brought the shutter. The body would have been quite warm.’
“‘It would.’
“‘Now--you saw the wound. Indicate for the jury exactly where it was.’
“The doctor laid his hand on the top of his head.
“‘Not the front, but the top. Very good. Mr. Holme was six feet high.
Look at the prisoner. Is it possible that so short a man could have
inflicted such a blow on the top of the head?’
“‘Not unless he found his victim seated.’
“‘Quite so. And we have heard from Mr. Campaigne that it was impossible
to sit down in the wet wood. Thank you.’”
One need not go on. This was the most important part of the evidence. At
first it looked very bad against the prisoner: no one else in the wood;
the blood on the smock; the weapon with which the deed was accomplished;
the apparent impossibility of anyone else being the criminal. Then came
this clever lawyer upon the scene, and in a little while the whole of
the case fell to pieces.
First, the doctor’s evidence that death had been caused two hours before
the prisoner entered the wood; the evidence of the boy that the prisoner
had gone in only a few minutes before he came out running. That was
positive evidence in his favour. There was, next, the evidence of Mr.
Campaigne. His brother-in-law was the last man in the world who would be
murdered without making a fight. He was a powerful man, much stronger
than the fellow charged with murdering him. He was not taken unawares,
but received the fatal blow in full front. Again, there was no robbery.
If a poor man commits the crime of murder, he does it either for
revenge, or for jealousy, or for robbery. There could be none of those
motives at work in the murder of this unfortunate gentleman.
Lastly, there was the best possible testimony in favour of the
prisoner’s personal character. This is not of much use where the
evidence is strong, but when it is weak it may be of the greatest
possible help. His employer stated that the prisoner was a good workman
who knew his business; that he was sober and industrious and honest; the
least likely man on his farm to commit this atrocious act.
The Judge summed up favourably. The jury retired to consider their
verdict. They came back after an hour. Verdict: “Not guilty.”
“Quite right,” said Leonard, laying down the book. “The man John Dunning
certainly was innocent of this charge.”
Then followed more writing by the housekeeper:
“When the verdict was declared the prisoner stepped down, and was
greeted with friendly congratulations by his master, the farmer, and
others. The Judge, before leaving the Court, sent for Mr. Campaigne.
“‘Sir,’ he said, shaking hands with him, ‘we have to deplore our own
loss as well as yours in the melancholy events of that day. For my own
part, although I consider the verdict of the jury amply justified by the
evidence, I should like your opinion on the matter.’
“‘If it is worth your attention, you shall hear it. I had already made
up my mind on the point. The evidence at the inquest was quite
incomplete. After talking the matter over with the doctor, I was
convinced that the murder was most certainly committed long before the
man Dunning went into the wood at all. The state of the body showed, if
medical evidence is worth anything, that death had taken place two hours
before: that is, before eleven--in fact, shortly after I left him. He
must have been walking straight to his death when I left him and saw him
striding along through the wood.’
“‘And have you been able to form any theory at all?’
“‘None. Had there been robbery, I should have suspected gipsies. Our own
people about here are quiet and harmless. Such a thing as wilful and
deliberate murder would be impossible for them.’
“‘So the case only becomes the more mysterious.’
“‘I felt so strongly as to the man’s innocence that I not only provided
him with counsel, but I also provided counsel with my own full statement
of the case. The murderer of my brother-in-law, the slayer of my
wife’--here Mr. Campaigne turned very pale--‘will be discovered; some
time or other he must be discovered. I have understood that murder lies
on the conscience until life becomes intolerable. Then the man
confesses, and welcomes the shameful death to end it. Let us wait till
the murderer finds his burden too heavy to be borne.’
“‘Yet,’ said the Judge, ‘one would like to find him out by means of the
Law.’
“‘Well,’ said Mr. Campaigne, ‘for my own part, I resolved that I would
do all in my power so that an innocent man should not suffer for the
guilty if I could prevent it.’
“‘Sir,’ said the Judge, ‘your conduct is what the world expects of a
noble gentleman. There remains one conclusion. It is that there was
someone concealed in the wood. The boy said that no one went out. He was
thinking of the two ends; but he could not perhaps see through the wood,
or beyond the wood. It is not yet, perhaps, too late to search for
footsteps. However, no doubt all that can be done will be done.’
“So the trial was finished. I have not heard that any further
examination of the spot was made. As all the village, and people from
neighbouring villages and the nearest market-towns, crowded over every
Sunday for weeks after, gazing at the spot where the body was found, it
was of very little use to look for footsteps.
“The man John Dunning went back to work. But the village folk--his old
friends--turned against him. They would no longer associate with him;
the taint of murder was upon him, though he was as innocent a man as
ever stepped. The Vicar spoke to the people, but it was in vain; anyone
who had been tried for murder must be a murderer, and he was shunned
like a leper or a madman.
“Then the Vicar spoke about it to the Squire, who gave John money so
that he might emigrate; and with all his family he went to Botany Bay,
where the people are not all convicts, I am told. There, at least, it
ought not to be thrown in a man’s teeth that he had been tried and
acquitted for murder. I have never heard what became of John Dunning and
his family afterwards.
“The Squire offered a reward of £500 for the apprehension and conviction
of some person unknown who had murdered Mr. Langley Holme. The printed
bill remained on the church door for years--long after the rain had
washed out the letters, until the whole bill was finally washed out and
destroyed. But the reward was never claimed, nor was there any attempt
to fix the guilt upon another; and as time went on, a belief grew up in
the minds of the world that, notwithstanding the acquittal, no other was
possible as the criminal than John Dunning himself. So that it was a
fortunate thing for him that he went away when he did, before the
popular belief was turned quite so dead against him.
“The wood became haunted; no one dared pass through it alone, even by
day; because the murdered man walked by day as well as by night. I
cannot say, for myself, that I ever actually saw the ghost--not, that is
to say, to recognise the poor gentleman, though there are plenty of
credible witnesses who swear to having seen it--in the twilight, in the
moonlight, and in the sunshine. But one day, when I was walking home
from the village--it was in the morning about eleven o’clock--I saw a
strange thing which made my heart stand still.
“It was a spring day, with a fresh breeze and sunshine, but with flying
clouds. They made light and shadow over the fields. In the wood, which,
as was stated at the trial, was more of a coppice than a wood, composed
of slender trees such as birches, which were on one side, and firs and
larches on the other, with a good deal of undergrowth among the birches,
I saw, as clear as ever I saw anything in my life, a figure--oh! quite
plain--a figure under the birches and among the bushes and undergrowth.
I knew there could be no one there, but I saw a figure, plain as the
figure of man or woman. It had its back to me, and I made out head and
shoulders and arms; the rest of the body was hidden. While I looked the
shadow passed away and the sun came out. Then the figure disappeared. I
waited for it to return. It did not.
“I crept slowly through the wood, looking about fearfully to right and
left. There was nothing; the birds were singing and calling to each
other, but there was no ghost. Yet I had seen it. When I asked myself
how it was dressed I could not remember; nay, I had not observed. Then
there were some to whom the ghost had appeared clad as when he met the
murderer; nay, some to whom it has spoken; so that my own evidence is
not of so much importance as that of some others.
“After the funeral we could not fail to observe a great change in the
habits of my master.
“Before the trouble Mr. Campaigne was a man fond of society; he would
invite friends to dinner two or three times a week. He was fond of the
bottle, but no drunkard; once a week he went to the market town, and
there dined at the gentlemen’s ordinary. He was a Justice of the Peace,
and active; he farmed himself some of his own land, and took an interest
in the stock and in the crops; he went to church every Sunday morning,
and had prayers every morning for the household; he was fond of playing
with his children; he talked politics and read the paper every week. He
went hunting once or twice a week in the season; he went shooting nearly
every day in the autumn; he attended the races; he was a gardener, and
looked after his hothouses and conservatories; in a word, he was a
country gentleman who pleased himself with the pursuits of the country.
He was a good farmer, a good landlord, a good magistrate, a good father,
and a good Christian.
“Yet, mark what followed. When the murder happened, the body was placed
in the dining-room. The master went into the library; there he had his
meals served. He never entered the dining-room afterwards; he sat in the
library when he was not walking on the terrace alone.
“Suddenly, not little by little, he abandoned everything. He left off
going to church; he left off going to market; he left off shooting,
hunting, gardening, farming, reading; he gave up company; he refused to
see anyone; he opened no letters; he held no family prayers; he paid no
attention to his children; if he found them playing, he passed by the
innocents as if they had been strangers; as for the youngest, she who
cost her mother her life, I doubt if he ever saw her, or knew who she
was if he did see her.
“And so it has continued all these years. Sometimes the lawyer comes
over when money is wanted; then the money is obtained. But he never
speaks; he listens, and signs a cheque. As his housekeeper, I used to
present an open bill from time to time; the money was put upon the bill
with no question. The grooms have been long dismissed; the horses turned
out to grass are long dead; the dogs are dead; the garden has run to
seed and weed; the rooms, in which there has been no fire, or light, or
air, or anything, are mouldering in decay.
“As for the poor unfortunate children, they grew up somehow; the master
would allow no interference on the part of his own family; the lawyer,
Mr. Ducie, was the only person who could persuade him to anything. The
boys were sent to a preparatory school, and then to a public school. The
second went into the Navy--never was there a more gallant or handsome
boy--but he was drowned; the elder went to Oxford and into Parliament,
but he killed himself; the girl married a merchant who turned out bad.
“Everything turned out bad. It was a most unfortunate family; father
and children alike--all were unfortunate.”
* * * * *
Here ended the housekeeper’s book of extracts and comments. There was
appended a letter. It was headed, “Mary’s letter, September, 2d, 1855:”
“DEAR LUCY,
“I have not been able to answer your letter before--believe me.
There are times when the heart must be alone with the heart. I have
been alone with my sorrowful heart--oh, my sorrowful heart!--for a
month since it happened.
“I can now tell you something--not all--that has fallen upon us,
upon my innocent babes and myself. You heard that Langley took his
own life with his own hand four weeks ago. You ask now why he did
it. He was doing well--no one was more promising, no one had
brighter prospects; friends assured me that in proper time I might
confidently expect to see him in the Cabinet; his powers and his
influence and his name were improving daily; he was acquiring daily
greater knowledge of affairs. At home I may say truthfully that he
was happy with his wife, who would have laid down her life
cheerfully to make him happy, and with his tender children. As for
anything outside his home, such as some young men permit
themselves, he would have no such thought, and could not have as a
man who considered his duty to wife and family or as a Christian.
Yet he killed himself--oh, my dear, he killed himself!--and I am
left. Why did he do it?
“There was one thing which always weighed heavily upon his
mind--the condition of his father. He frequently talked of it. Why,
he asked, should a misfortune such as that which had befallen
him--the tragic death of a friend and the sudden death of his
wife--so completely destroy a strong man, young, healthy, capable
of rising above the greatest possible disasters? Why should this
misfortune change him permanently, so that he should neglect
everything that he had formerly loved, and should become a
miserable, silent solitary, brooding over the past, living the
useless life of a hermit? Of course, he felt also the neglect in
which he and his brother and sister had been left, and the lack of
sympathy with which his father had always regarded them. For,
remember, his father is not insane; he is able to transact business
perfectly. It is only that he refuses to speak or to converse, and
lives alone.
“Now, dear Lucy, I am not going to make any suggestion. I want only
to tell you exactly what happened. You sent him a book of extracts
and cuttings, with supplementary notes. These cuttings were the
contemporary account of the murder of Mr. Langley Holme, the
inquest, the trial of a man who was acquitted, and the strange
effect which the whole produced upon Mr. Campaigne, then quite a
young man.
“He received the book, and took it into his study. This was in the
morning. At midnight I looked in. He turned his face. My dear, it
was haggard. I asked him what was the matter that he looked so ill.
He replied, rambling, that the fathers had eaten sour grapes. I
begged him to leave off, and to come upstairs. He said something in
reply, but I did not catch it, and so I left him.
“He never came upstairs. At five in the morning I woke up, and
finding that he was not in bed, I hurried down the stairs full of
sad presentiments. Alas! he was dead. Do not ask me how--he was
dead!
“Dear Lucy, you are now the only one left of the three children. I
have burnt the book. At all events, my children shall not see it or
hear of this terrible story. I implore you to burn your copy.”
Mrs. Galley wrote after this: “I have read the book again quite through.
I cannot understand at all why my brother killed himself. As for the
murderer, of course it was the man named John Dunning. Who else could it
have been?”
Leonard looked up. It was three o’clock in the morning. His face was
troubled with doubts and misgiving.
“Why did they burn the book?” he said. “As for the murder, there must
have been someone hidden in the wood. That is clear. No other
explanation is possible. But why did my grandfather cut his throat?
There is nothing in the book that could lead him to such an act.”