Death in the Village
The child who was lost came from a lonely cottage that stands on the
slope of a steep hillside called the Allt, or the height. The land
about it is wild and ragged; here the growth of gorse and bracken, here
a marshy hollow of reeds and rushes, marking the course of the stream
from some hidden well, here thickets of dense and tangled undergrowth,
the outposts of the wood. Down through this broken and uneven ground a
path leads to the lane at the bottom of the valley; then the land rises
again and swells up to the cliffs over the sea, about a quarter of a
mile away. The little girl, Gertrude Morgan, asked her mother if she
might go down to the lane and pick the purple flowers—these were
orchids—that grew there, and her mother gave her leave, telling her she
must be sure to be back by tea-time, as there was apple-tart for tea.
She never came back. It was supposed that she must have crossed the
road and gone to the cliff’s edge, possibly in order to pick the
sea-pinks that were then in full blossom. She must have slipped, they
said, and fallen into the sea, two hundred feet below. And, it may be
said at once, that there was no doubt some truth in this conjecture,
though it stopped very far short of the whole truth. The child’s body
must have been carried out by the tide, for it was never found.
The conjecture of a false step or of a fatal slide on the slippery turf
that slopes down to the rocks was accepted as being the only
explanation possible. People thought the accident a strange one
because, as a rule, country children living by the cliffs and the sea
become wary at an early age, and Gertrude Morgan was almost ten years
old. Still, as the neighbors said, “that’s how it must have happened,
and it’s a great pity, to be sure.” But this would not do when in a
week’s time a strong young laborer failed to come to his cottage after
the day’s work. His body was found on the rocks six or seven miles from
the cliffs where the child was supposed to have fallen; he was going
home by a path that he had used every night of his life for eight or
nine years, that he used of dark nights in perfect security, knowing
every inch of it. The police asked if he drank, but he was a
teetotaler; if he were subject to fits, but he wasn’t. And he was not
murdered for his wealth, since agricultural laborers are not wealthy.
It was only possible again to talk of slippery turf and a false step;
but people began to be frightened. Then a woman was found with her neck
broken at the bottom of a disused quarry near Llanfihangel, in the
middle of the county. The “false step” theory was eliminated here, for
the quarry was guarded with a natural hedge of gorse bushes. One would
have to struggle and fight through sharp thorns to destruction in such
a place as this; and indeed the gorse bushes were broken as if some one
had rushed furiously through them, just above the place where the
woman’s body was found. And this was strange: there was a dead sheep
lying beside her in the pit, as if the woman and the sheep together had
been chased over the brim of the quarry. But chased by whom, or by
what? And then there was a new form of terror.
This was in the region of the marshes under the mountain. A man and his
son, a lad of fourteen or fifteen, set out early one morning to work
and never reached the farm where they were bound. Their way skirted the
marsh, but it was broad, firm and well metalled, and it had been raised
about two feet above the bog. But when search was made in the evening
of the same day Phillips and his son were found dead in the marsh,
covered with black slime and pondweed. And they lay some ten yards from
the path, which, it would seem, they must have left deliberately. It
was useless of course, to look for tracks in the black ooze, for if one
threw a big stone into it a few seconds removed all marks of the
disturbance. The men who found the two bodies beat about the verges and
purlieus of the marsh in hope of finding some trace of the murderers;
they went to and fro over the rising ground where the black cattle were
grazing, they searched the alder thickets by the brook; but they
discovered nothing.
Most horrible of all these horrors, perhaps, was the affair of the
Highway, a lonely and unfrequented by-road that winds for many miles on
high and lonely land. Here, a mile from any other dwelling, stands a
cottage on the edge of a dark wood. It was inhabited by a laborer named
Williams, his wife, and their three children. One hot summer’s evening,
a man who had been doing a day’s gardening at a rectory three or four
miles away, passed the cottage, and stopped for a few minutes to chat
with Williams, the laborer, who was pottering about his garden, while
the children were playing on the path by the door. The two talked of
their neighbors and of the potatoes till Mrs. Williams appeared at the
doorway and said supper was ready, and Williams turned to go into the
house. This was about eight o’clock, and in the ordinary course the
family would have their supper and be in bed by nine, or by half-past
nine at latest. At ten o’clock that night the local doctor was driving
home along the Highway. His horse shied violently and then stopped dead
just opposite the gate to the cottage. The doctor got down, frightened
at what he saw; and there on the roadway lay Williams, his wife, and
the three children, stone dead, all of them. Their skulls were battered
in as if by some heavy iron instrument; their faces were beaten into a
pulp.