Shot down from the Heights.
In the breakfast-room at the Red Court Farm, seated at its well-laid
morning-table, was Richard Thornycroft. Seated at it only: not eating:
his plate was unsupplied, his coffee stood cold before him. He seemed
to be in some unpleasant meditation, every line of his dark face
speaking of perplexity.
To be broken in upon by the irruption of numerous visitors, evidently
astonished him not a little. The attendants on Mr. Thornycroft had
gathered on the way from the Half-moon beach, just as some balls
gather in rolling, and six or seven friends followed in on the tail of
the master of the Red Court Farm. Isaac, on the contrary, seemed to
have fallen away from it, for he did not enter with the rest. Richard
rose to welcome them, with scant courtesy.
"Where's Cyril?" began the justice. "Is he down yet?"
"I don't know," answered Richard, taking out his watch and glancing at
it. "I have not seen him. It is early yet."
"And Cyril never is very early," added the justice, quickly assuming
that his youngest son was in his bed still. "Have you heard the news,
Richard?"
"Yes," was Richard's laconic answer.
"What do you think of it? How do you suppose it could have happened?"
"I don't think about it," returned Richard. "I conclude that if he did
not shoot himself, he must have got into some quarrelling fray. He
drank enough wine last evening to heat his brain, and we had proof
that he was fond of meddling in what did not concern him. The
extraordinary part of the business is, what brought him back on the
plateau, after he had once started on his journey."
"I'll go up and arouse Cyril, and know where he left Hunter.
Gentlemen, if you will sit down and take some breakfast, we shall be
glad of your company. There's a capital round of beef. Hallo you
girls!" called out the justice, striding away in the direction of the
kitchen, "some of you come in here and attend. Sinnett, let some more
ham and eggs be sent in."
Nothing loath, the gentlemen responded at once to the invitation: most
of them had not breakfasted. The Rev. Mr. Southall made one. The round
of beef was capital, as its master said; the game pies looked
tempting, the cold ham, the hot rolls, the fresh eggs, the toasted
bacon, all were excellent. Apparently, the Red Court Farm kept itself
prepared for an impromptu public breakfast, just as well as it did for
an impromptu dinner.
Mr. Thornycroft ascended the stairs, and presently his voice was heard
on the landing, calling to Cyril. But it died away in the echoes of
the large house, and there was no answer; unless the opening of the
door of his wife's room by her maid could be called such.
"Did you want anything, sir?" she asked, looking out.
"Nothing particular. How is your lady this morning?"
"Much the same, sir, thank you."
The maid shut the door again, and Mr. Thornycroft went on to Cyril's
chamber. He found it empty. It was so unusual for Cyril to be up and
out early, that he felt a sort of surprise. That he had not gone far,
however, was evident, as his watch and purse lay on the chest of
drawers. The justice crossed the corridor and knocked at his
daughter's room.
"Are you up, Mary Anne?"
"Yes," responded a faint and hurried voice within. "What do you want,
papa?"
"I want you. Open the door."
But Miss Thornycroft did not obey. The justice, never remarkable for
patience, when his behests were disregarded, laid hold of the handle
and shook it with his strong hand.
"Open the door, I say, Mary Anne. What, girl! are you afraid of me?"
Miss Thornycroft slowly opened the door, and presented herself. She
was in a handsome grey silk dress, but it looked tumbled, as if she
had lain down in it, and her hair was rough and disarranged. It was
the gown she had worn the previous evening, and it would almost seem
as if she had done nothing to herself since going upstairs to bed. The
signs caught her father's eye, and he spoke in astonishment.
"Why--what in the world, girl? You have never undressed yourself!
Surely, you did not pay too much respect to the wine, as some of the
men did!"
"You know better than that, sir. I was very tired, and threw myself on
the bed when I came up: I suppose sleep overtook me. Do not allude to
it, papa, downstairs. I will soon change my dress."
"Sleeping in your clothes does not seem to agree with you, Mary Anne:
you look as white as if you had swallowed a doctor's shop. Do you know
anything of Cyril?--that's what I wanted to ask you."
"No," she replied, "I have neither seen nor heard him."
Mr. Thornycroft came to the conclusion that Cyril had heard of the
calamity, and gone out to see about it in his curiosity. He returned
to the breakfast-room and said this. Sinnett, who was there, turned
round and spoke.
"Mr. Cyril did not sleep at home last night, sir."
"Nonsense," responded the justice.
"He did _not_, sir," persisted Sinnett, in as positive a tone as she
dared to use.
"Not sleep at home!" cried Mr. Thornycroft, ironically. "You must be
mistaken, Sinnett. Cyril is not a night-bird," he continued, turning
his fine and rather free blue eyes on the company: "he leaves late
hours to his brothers."
"When Martha took up his hot water just now, and knocked, there was no
reply," returned Sinnett, quietly. "So she went in, fearing he might
be ill, and found the bed had not been slept in."
For Cyril, who had never willingly been guilty of loose conduct in his
whole life, to sleep out from home secretly, was as remarkable a fact
as the going regularly to bed at ten o'clock would have been for his
brothers. Mr. Thornycroft not only felt amazement, but showed it.
"I cannot understand this at all. Richard, do you know where he can
be?"
"Not in the least. I was waiting for him to come down that I might
question him where he parted with Hunter."
"When did you see him last?"
"When he was going off last night with Hunter. I have not seen him
since. He will turn up by-and-by," continued Richard, carelessly. "If
a fellow never has stopped out to make a night of it, that's no reason
why he never may. Perhaps he came to an anchor at the Mermaid."
Clearly there was reason in this. Cyril Thornycroft might have
remained out from some cause or other, though he never had before, and
the gentlemen fell to their breakfast again. But for the strange and
unhappy fact of Hunter's having come back to Coastdown, Mr.
Thornycroft had concluded that Cyril must have walked with him to
Jutpoint, and taken a bed there.
"Go up to Miss Thornycroft, Sinnett," said the justice. "She does not
seem well. Perhaps she would like some tea."
Giving a look round the table first to see that nothing more was
wanted (for the housekeeper liked to execute orders at her own time
and will), she proceeded to Miss Thornycroft's room. The young lady
then had her hair down and her dress off, apparently in the legitimate
process of dressing.
"My goodness me, Miss Mary Anne, how white you look!" was the
involuntary exclamation of the servant. "It is a dreadful thing, miss,
but you must not take it too much to heart. It is worse for poor Mr.
Hunter himself than it is for you."
Mary Anne Thornycroft, who had made a vain effort to hide her emotion
and her ghastly face from the servant, opened her lips to speak, and
closed them again, unable to utter a syllable.
"What a _gaby_ the justice must have been to make such haste to tell
her!" thought the woman. For it never occurred to Sinnett that Miss
Thornycroft could have gained the information from any other source;
or, rather, it may be more correct to say that she knew it could not
have been gained from any other. Sinnett, standing in the hall
underneath at the moment, had heard her master's knock for admission
at his daughter's door, and the colloquy that ensued--not the words,
only the sound of the voices.
"The whole village is up in arms," continued Sinnett. "It is an awful
murder. Hyde--"
"Don't talk of it," came the interrupting wail; "I cannot bear it yet.
Is he found?"
"Poor wretch, yes! with no look of a human face about him, they say,"
was Sinnett's answer.
"Shot down on to the Half-moon?" shuddered Miss Thornycroft, evidently
speaking more to herself than to Sinnett.
"In the fur corner of it. I'll go and bring you a cup of tea, miss.
You are shaking all over."
Mary Anne put out her hand to arrest her, but she was weak, feeble,
suffering, and Sinnett went on, totally regardless. In the woman's
opinion there was no panacea for ills, whether mental or bodily, like
a cup of strong tea, and she hastened to bring one for her young lady.
The shortest way of doing this was to get it from the breakfast-room,
and in went Sinnett. She was not disposed to stand on too much
ceremony at the best of times, especially when put out. Occupying her
position for many years as mistress of the internal economy of the Red
Court Farm, she felt her sway in it, and she was warmly condemning her
master for having spoken. For Sinnett was one who liked on occasion to
set those about her to rights. The large silver teapot was before the
justice. Sinnett, a breakfast cup in her hand, went up and asked him
to fill it.
"What a pity it is, sir, that you told Miss Thornycroft so soon;
before she was well out of her bed!" began Sinnett in an undertone, as
she stood waiting. "Time enough for her to have heard such a horrid
thing, sir, when she had taken a bit of breakfast. There she is,
shaking like a child, not able to dress herself."
"I did not tell her," returned. Mr. Thornycroft aloud. "What are you
talking of?"
"Yes, you did, sir."
"I did _not_, I tell you."
"You must have told her, sir," persisted Sinnett. "The first thing she
asked me was, whether the body was found on the Half-moon, and said it
was shot down on to it. Nobody else has been to the room but
yourself."
"Take up the tea to your mistress, and don't stand cavilling here,"
interposed Richard, in a tone of stern command.
Justice Thornycroft brooked not contradiction from a servant.
Moreover, he began to think that his daughter must have got her
information from Cyril. He rose from table and strode upstairs after
Sinnett, following her into his daughter's room.
"Mary Anne"--in a sharp tone--"did you tell that woman I disclosed to
you what had happened to Hunter?"
"No," was the reply.
"Did I tell you that anything had happened to him?"
"No, papa, you did not."
"Do you hear what Miss Thornycroft says?" continued the magistrate,
turning to the servant. "I advise you not to presume to contradict me
again. If the house were in less excitement, you should come in before
them all, and beg my pardon."
A ghastly look of fear had started to the features of Miss
Thornycroft. "I--I heard them talking of it outside," she murmured,
looking at Sinnett.
"Outside!" exclaimed Sinnett.
"Underneath, in the herb-garden," faintly added Miss Thornycroft,
whose very lips were white as ashes.
"Then you did not hear of it from Cyril, Mary Anne?"
"No, papa, I have not seen Cyril at all."
Justice Thornycroft strode downstairs again. Sinnett, who did not like
to be rebuked--and, in truth, rarely gave occasion for it--looked
rather sullen as she put down the cup and saucer.
"Nobody has been in the side garden since I got up," cried Sinnett.
"Oh, it was before that," too hastily affirmed Miss Thornycroft. "They
were strange voices," she hurriedly added, as if afraid of more
questions.
Sinnett shut the door on Miss Thornycroft, and went away ruminating.
Something like fear had arisen to the woman's own face.
"What does it all mean?" she asked herself, unconsciously resting the
small silver waiter on the window-seat, as she stood looking out. "She
_could not_ have heard anything outside in the herb-garden, for nobody
has had the key of it this morning; and as to people having been up
here talking of it before I was up, the poor man had not then been
found."
That some dreadful mystery existed, something that would not bear the
light of day, and in which Miss Thornycroft was in some way mixed up,
Sinnett felt certain. And, woman-like, she spoke out her thoughts too
freely: not in ill-nature; not to do harm to Miss Thornycroft or
anyone else; but in the love of talking, in the wish to get her own
curiosity satisfied. How _had_ she learnt the news? Sinnett wondered
again and again. What was it that had put her into this unnatural
state of alarm and fear? Regret she might feel for Robert Hunter;
horror at his dreadful fate--but whence arose the _fear?_ Shrewd
Sinnett finally descended, her brain in full work.
When the party in the breakfast-room had concluded their meal, which
they did not spare, in spite of the sight their eyes had that morning
looked on, they departed in a body, each one privately hoping he
should be the first to alight on Mr. Cyril. In the present stage of
the affair, Cyril Thornycroft was regarded as the one only person who
could throw light upon it. It did not clearly appear where he could
be. Richard's suggestion of the Mermaid was an exceedingly improbable
one. He was not there; he seemed not to be anywhere else; nobody
appeared to have seen him since the previous night, when he was
starting to walk a little way with Robert Hunter.
Mr. Thornycroft sat down in the justice room to write to the coroner,
and was interrupted by his eldest son. He looked up in expectation.
"Has Cyril turned up, Richard?"
"No, sir. Cyril's not gone far. His porte-monnaie and watch are in his
room."
"Yes, I caught a sight of them myself. It is strange where he can be.
I am rather uneasy."
"There's no occasion for that," returned Richard. "He must have gone
on to Jutpoint. There's not a doubt of it."
"Well, I suppose it is so. The curious part is, what brought Hunter
back again when he was once fairly on the road? They have been
suggesting at the breakfast-table that he might have forgotten
something; and I suppose it was so. But what took him to the plateau?"
Richard had his theory on that point. "Curiosity, unjustifiable
curiosity; possibly a wicked, dishonourable resolution to betray us,
after all," were the words rising so persistently in his mind that he
had some difficulty not to speak them. He did not, however; he wished
to spare unpleasantness to his father so far as might be. The only one
to whom he gave the history of what took place on the previous night
before parting with Hunter, was Isaac; and Isaac, as we know, had
repeated just a word to his father. Mr. Thornycroft recurred to it
now.
"What was it Isaac said about you and Hunter, Richard? I almost
forget. That Hunter went on the plateau and saw the signal-light?"
"Hunter saw it. When he first quitted the house some devil's instinct
took him to the plateau. I met him as he was running down, made him
promise to hold his tongue, and sent him off with Cyril. I could have
staked my life--yes, my life," added Richard, firmly--"that he would
not have come back again."
"Was that all that passed?"
"Oh yes, that was all," carelessly returned Richard, who thought it
well not to give the details of the unpleasant interview. "He and
Cyril walked away together, and I fully assumed we had seen the colour
of his ugly face for the last time."
"And East saw them down at the Hollow, so they must have gone that
far. Well, it's very odd; but I suppose Cyril will clear it up."
Mr. Thornycroft drew down his spectacles before his eyes--they had
been lifted while he talked--and went on with his note to the coroner.
Again Richard broke in, speaking abruptly.
"Sir, this affair of Hunter's must be kept dark."
"Kept dark!" echoed the justice. "When a man's found murdered, one
can't keep it dark. What do you mean, Dick?"
"I mean, kept as dark as the legal proceedings will allow. Don't make
more stir in it, sir, than is absolutely necessary. It would have been
well to keep secret his having gone on the plateau at all; but it's
known already, and can't be helped now. Hush it up as much as you
can."
"But why?"
"_Hush it up_," impressively repeated Richard, his dark face working
with some inward agitation. "_I_ shall know what to say in regard to
his having gone on the plateau before departure; you and Isaac had
better be silent. Hush it up--hush it up! You will be at the coroner's
right hand, and can sway him imperceptibly. It is essential advice,
father."
"What the deuce!" burst forth the magistrate, staring at his son; "you
do not fear Cyril was the murderer of Hunter?"
"No, thank God!" fervently answered Richard. "Cyril would be the last
in the world to speak an unkind word, let alone shoot a man. But,
don't you see, sir--too minute enquiries may set them on the track of
something else that was done on the Half-moon last night, and it would
not do. That confounded Kyne has got his eyes and ears open enough, as
it is."
"By George! there's something in that," deliberated the justice. "My
sympathy for Hunter put that out of my mind. All right, Dicky, now I
have the cue."
Mr. Thornycroft sealed his note to the coroner, despatched it, and
went upstairs to Lady Ellis's room. She was up, and sitting on the
sofa. He shook hands and enquired how she had rested. For a long
while, in fact since the beginning of her illness, their relations
with each other had been but those of common acquaintance. He was
wondering whether it would be well to tell her of the catastrophe; but
she had already heard of it, and sat, paler than usual, gazing at the
idlers who were crowding the edge of the plateau, leaning over it in
their curiosity. That unusual sight would alone have told her
something was the matter.
"Is it _possible_ that this can be true?" she asked, in a low tone of
distress. "Is Robert Hunter really murdered?"
"It is too true, unfortunately," he answered; "at least, that he is
dead. Whether murdered--as everybody has been in haste to say and
assume or whether accidentally shot, remains to be proved."
"And what are the particulars? What is known?"
But here Mr. Thornycroft would not satisfy her, or could not stay to
do it. His carriage was at the door to take him to Jutpoint, where he
had magisterial business that could not be postponed. Mentioning just
a fact or two, he quitted the room, and found Isaac talking rather
sharply to Sinnett in the hall below.
Sinnett had not allowed her doubts or her tongue to slumber. First of
all she had talked to Hyde--of Miss Thornycroft's curious demeanour,
of her incautious avowal, of her remarkable state of alarm and of
fear; and Hyde replied by telling her to "hold her peace if she
couldn't talk sense." She next, as it chanced, mentioned it to
Tomlett, and he retorted that Sinnett was a fool. Sinnett felt
wrathful; and in some way or other the matter penetrated to the ears
of Isaac. He did not believe it; he felt sure that his sister knew
nothing, and was taking Sinnett to task when Mr. Thornycroft
descended.
A few hasty words from the three, and Mr. Thornycroft opened the door
of his daughter's parlour, where he understood she now was. Rather to
his surprise, Richard was shut in with her. It was an unusual thing
for him to be indoors in the day-time. She wore a morning dress now,
and looked much as usual, except that her face was pale and her hands
trembled. Richard went out as they entered.
"Now, then," said the justice, "we will have this cleared up. Where
and from whom did you hear of this matter, Mary Anne?"
She answered briefly, leaning her forehead on her hand, that she had
heard people talking of it early in the morning below her window.
Sinnett, anxious to justify herself, and very vexed that this should
have come to the ears of her masters, said this could not be; the key
of the herb-garden was in her pocket, and nobody could have got into
it.
The plot of ground on the side of the house, under Miss Thornycroft's
window, where the herbs were grown, was enclosed. A small glass shed
(it was not half large enough to be called a green-house) was at one
corner of it, in which Sinnett had some plants. Three or four of these
had been stolen one night, and since then Sinnett had kept the gate
locked.
Miss Thornycroft, her hand held up still as if to hide her face,
persisted. She had heard voices underneath in the early morning,
strange voices; it was so unusual that she quietly opened her window
to listen. They spoke of Mr. Hunter, and she caught distinctly the
words "murder," and "shot down from the heights to the Half-moon." "It
was as if one man was telling another," faintly concluded Miss
Thornycroft. "I could only hope it was not true; it frightened me
terribly. As to how they could have been in the herb-garden, I suppose
they must have got over the palisades."
"Nothing more likely, that they might talk at leisure without
interruption," cried the justice, turning angrily on his housekeeper.
"Let the subject be dropped: do you hear, Sinnett? How dare you
attempt to raise a cabal! What's the matter with you to-day? One would
think _you_ shot him down."
Striding across the hall, the justice went out to his restive horses,
prancing and pawing the ground in their impatience. Isaac followed
him.
"If you will allow me, sir, I should like to accompany you."
"All right, Isaac; get up."
The justice drove away, his son by his side his groom sitting behind,
as he had once, years ago, driven away from the gate of Mrs. Chester;
but his daughter was with him then. Isaac's errand to Jutpoint,
unavowed, was to look after Cyril. Why it should have been so he could
not have told, then or later, but an uneasy prevision lay on his mind
that something or other was wrong, more than met the eye.
Sinnett, nettled beyond everything at her master's concluding
reproach, spoken though it was in irony, and at the turn of affairs
altogether, flounced off to her kitchen, leaving Miss Thornycroft
alone. She--Mary Anne Thornycroft--had made her explanation almost
glibly, after the manner of one who has learnt a part by heart, and
recites it. That some most awful dread was upon her--apart from
the natural grief and horror arising from the murder, if it was
murder--was indisputable, and Sinnett felt sure of it still.
Her face buried in her hands; her body swaying backwards and forwards
in her chair; her whole aspect evincing dire agony now she was alone,
sat Mary Anne Thornycroft. In that one past night she seemed to have
aged years. The knock of a visitor aroused her; some curious gossip
come to inquire and chatter and comment; and she escaped upstairs,
crossing Hyde in the hall.
"I cannot see anyone, Hyde; my head aches too much."
The door of her step-mother's room was open, and Lady Ellis called to
her. One single moment of rebellion, of wish to escape, and then she
remembered that she had not been in at all that morning, and also that
it was well to avoid observation just now. Lady Ellis sat as Mr.
Thornycroft had left her; her dark hair drawn simply from her wasted
face, her purple morning-gown tied at the waist with a cord and
tassel, its lace ruffles falling over her thin white hand.
"I was just going to ring and ask you to come up, Mary Anne. I _must_
hear the particulars of this dreadful mystery; I cannot rest until
they are told. Look at them!"
She pointed to the heights. Dotting the plateau, peeping in at the
round tower, holding hands and waists for security as they bent
forward over the edge to look at the scene of the tragedy below, were
the idlers. Mary Anne sat down near the table, her elbow on it, her
head leaning on her hand, her eyes bent on the carpet, and told the
particulars that the world knew. Lady Ellis heard them to the end
without comment.
"But why should he have gone on the plateau at all?" she questioned.
"I don't know. He did go. As I stood at the door watching him off, he
turned from the road to the plateau. I saw him. I saw him cross the
railings."
"And your brother Richard saw him?"
"Yes, as he was coming off. They stood talking for a minute or two,
Richard says. Cyril came up then, and he started to walk a little way
with Robert Hunter."
"But what does Cyril say? Where is he?"
"He has not been home since. They suppose he went on to Jutpoint and
slept there. Nothing more except this is known."
"But Mr. Hunter must have come back again?"
"Of course he must. It is his coining back that is so unaccountable."
"And why--why should Cyril walk to Jutpoint, unless he walked with Mr.
Hunter?" resumed Lady Ellis after a pause.
Miss Thornycroft shook her head. It was in truth so much involved in
doubt and mystery from beginning to end, that she felt unable to cope
with it, even by conjecture, she said faintly. "The terrible point in
it all seems to be in his having come back again."
"Nay, the terrible point is the attack upon him," dissented her
step-mother. "It might have been an accidental shot, after all. At
what hour was it supposed to take place?"
Miss Thornycroft could not say. "Of course--yes--it might have been
only accidental," she assented with whitening lips.
"Mary Ann, how ill you look!"
"Do I? It frightened me, you see. And I have a dreadful headache," she
added, rising to escape those eyes bent on her with so much curiosity.
"I must go and lie down on the bed, if you will spare me."
"Lie on my sofa," said Lady Ellis.
"No, thank you. Shut in by myself, I may get to sleep."
"Tell me one thing," and Lady Ellis laid her hand on her
step-daughter's arm. "Is any one suspected?"
"No; oh no."
"I suppose, Mary Ann, it is quite sure that he is _dead?_"
A faint cry at the mockery of the almost suggested hope escaped Mary
Anne's lips. When the surgeon saw him at eight o'clock that morning,
he thought he must have been dead about ten hours.
Lady Ellis leaned back in her chair when she was left alone, her eyes
closed, her wan hands clasped meekly on her bosom.
"Ah! was he fit to go? was he fit to go?" she murmured, the thought
having lain on her as a great dream of agony. "Had it been Cyril
Thornycroft, there could be no doubt. But _he_--? Perhaps he was
changed, as I am," she resumed after a long pause. "Oh! yes, yes, it
might have been so; Robert Hunter might have been READY. Thank God
that he gave me his forgiveness last night!"