The chalk pit naturally formed the great attraction, and on reaching it,
the spots were pointed out where basket and shawl were found; but though
a careful search was made by a portion of the force, nothing was for
some time found to account for the disappearance.
The party had, however, divided here, and a portion of them, under Big
Harry, had hastened along the road toward the Four Alls, the name of the
little public-house where it was expected to hear some tidings of the
men who had been seen in the town, and who must have passed, even if
they were guiltless of wrong. The vicar, however, chose to remain
behind, with about ten of his party, and together they began to make a
more careful search about the pit--the first investigation being of the
low post-and-rail fence which ran along the edge, to see if it was
perfect in every part.
Yes, there was no doubt of it; not a rail was broken, or post bent out
of the perpendicular, as would probably have been the case had any one
fallen against it or been pushed over. Not even a piece of the shallow
turf growing on the very brink of the pit was disordered, and the vicar
was about to give up that part of the search, when he made a leap
forward, and took from a rough splintered portion of the divided
fir-pole which formed the rail a tiny scrap of red worsted, such as
might very well have been torn from Daisy's shawl.
"I think we're on the right track, my lads," said the vicar. "Now let's
divide, and we'll search the coppice here, along the edge of the pit."
The men went eagerly to work, and searched foot by foot the little thin
sprinkling of fir trees and gorse that hung upon the edge of the
declivity, but without avail--there was not a spot that could have
sheltered a human form that was not scanned, and the divided party met
at last upon the low ground at the slope of the hill, where the cart
track cut its way in, and the lime-kiln stood half-way into the pit.
The vicar paused for a moment by the kiln, and peered in. It was not
burning, and in a few minutes he was able to satisfy himself that no one
had been in there, and with a shudder he turned away, spreading his men
so that step by step they examined the rough white and gray blocks that
had been thrown aside or had fallen. Some were fresh and of the purest
white, with here and there delicate traces of the pectens and cardiums
of a former shelly world; others were hoary and grey, and covered with a
frosty lichen; while others, again, were earth-stained and brown.
In accordance with their leader's instructions, each block was eagerly
examined, the vicar's idea being that it was possible for a cruel murder
to have taken place, and for the token of the hideous crime to have been
hidden, by laying it in some depression, and piling up the pieces of
chalk, of which ample lay ready, for hiding a hundred such crimes.
But, no; there were footmarks here and there, and traces of the edges of
the blocks having been chipped by heavy boots; but no spot could be
found where they could satisfy themselves that they had been removed.
By this time some forty more sturdy workmen had come up; the event, in
the midst of their enforced idleness from the works, being hailed as an
excitement; and any amount of muscle was ready to help if directed.
The long search was, however, in vain; and their leader was pondering as
to what he should do next, when a rough voice shouted:
"See here, lads. We'll do ony mander o' thing to find Joe Banks's
bairn. Come on! let's hurl ivery bit o' calk out o' the pit."
There was a shout at this, and the men were about to put their project
in execution, when the vicar held up his hand.
"It's waste of strength, my lads," he said. "I am fully convinced that
none of these blocks have been moved. Better search the lanes along the
road."
"Aw raight, parson," was the cry; and the men left the pit to proceed
along the road, the vicar on in front, so as to reach The Four Alls.
Before they had gone far they encountered the rest of their party,
returning without further success than that of making the announcement
that the men they sought had called there about nine, and had then gone
on, being taken up for a lift by a man with a cart.
"What man, and what cart?" said one of the police constables, who had
now come up.
The men did not know, and this being an important point, the whole party
now hastened on to the little roadside inn--a shabby, dilapidated place,
whose shed at the side, which represented the stabling, was falling away
from the house, and whose premises generally seemed to be arranged by
the owner as places for storing rubbish, dirt, and green scummed pools
of water. There was a cart with one wheel, and a mangy horse with one
eye, and apparently a ragged hen with one leg, but she put down another,
made a low-spirited remark evidently relating to stolen eggs, and went
off pecking here and there in a disconsolate manner, as if her search
for food were one of the most hopeless pursuits under the sun. There
was a garden, roughly fenced in, by the side of the house; but its crop
consisted of last year's gray cabbage-stumps; while, but for the sign
over the door, nearly defaced, but having visible the words "wines and
spirituous," the place could hardly have been taken for a place of
refreshment, even though the occupant of this attractive spot stood at
the door, showing the potency of the said "wines and spirituous" liquors
in his reddened and blotched face, as he leaned against the door-post,
smoking a long clay pipe, and staring lazily at the party who now came
up.
"Can you give us any information about the two men who came here last
night?" said the vicar.
"Say?" said the man, staring.
"Gentleman wants to know wheer them chaps is gone," said the constable.
"How should I know?" said the man, surlily. "Californy or Roosalum, for
owt I know."
"No nonsense, Brumby," said the constable. "You'd best speak out. Who
wheer they?"
"Friends o' mine," said the man, taking his pipe out of his mouth for a
moment, to relieve himself of a tremendous volume of smoke.
"What were their names?"
"How should I know? They come here, and has a bit o' rafrashment, and
they goes again. What do I keer, so long as they wares their money."
"Who had they got wi' 'em?"
"Nobbut their own sens."
"But I mean when they comed."
"Look ye here, I hadn't going to answer all your queshtons."
"Well, look here; had they any one wi' 'em when they went away?"
"Nobbat theer own sens," said the man, sulkily.
"Well, who gave them a lift?"
"Don't know, on'y as it weer a man in a cart."
"But you must ha' seen his name."
"No, I musn't if it wern't painted on," bawled the man. "What d'yer
come wherretin' me for about it? I don't ask my customers who comes in
for a gill o' ale wheer they come from, nor wheer they're going."
"Had they a young girl with them?" said the vicar, who was getting out
of patience.
"Not as I know on," said the man. "One had nobbut a whip."
There was evidently nothing to be got out of him, so the party returned
to Dumford, the policeman undertaking to communicate by telegraph with
the towns through which the men would be likely to pass, as this would
be the surest and quickest way.
As the day wore on, the other parties returned to assemble and discuss
the matter; though there was little to discuss, for Joe Banks had
returned without a trace being found of his child, and the same ill
fortune had attended Podmore and Richard Glaire.
The latter, soon as he reached home, however, sought Mrs Glaire, who
was lying down, apparently ill at ease, with Eve in attendance upon her,
the young girl rising with a shiver as her cousin entered the room, and
leaving without encountering his eyes.
"Where is Daisy Banks, mother?" said Richard, hoarsely, as soon as they
were alone. "I've kept up this foolery of searching all day, to quiet
these people, and now I insist upon knowing where she is."
"I should ask you that," said Mrs Glaire, angrily; "but if I did I
should not learn the truth. Where have you taken her?"
"Taken her?" said Richard, savagely. "Where should I take her? You
know I was at home all last night."
"Where you had planned to take her," said Mrs Glaire, coldly.
"I planned!" cried Richard. "Why, I left her with you. Plans, indeed!"
"Daisy Banks was not with me ten minutes," said Mrs Glaire, quietly.
"I said plans, because--"
"Because what?" cried Richard. "Do you wish me to tell you?"
"Yes, if you have anything to tell."
"Because you paid that chattering ass, Slee, to carry letters to and
fro, between you and Daisy, after you had given me your word of honour
that you would see her no more. Because you then, after gradually
bringing the silly girl over to your purposes, paid or bribed, which you
will, Simeon Slee, the man who has been one of the projectors of this
wretched strike, to act as your pander to take this girl off to London,
to await your coming. It is your doing; so now you had better seek
her."
"How did you know all this?"
"How did I know?" said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously. "How are such
things known? You leaned upon a bruised reed, and it broke and entered
your hand."
"Did Sim Slee tell you all this, then?" said Richard, stamping with
fury.
"Yes; and he would have told me long ago, had I given him what the knave
wants--money."
"A treacherous scoundrel!" cried Richard; "trusting him as I did."
"You knew him to be a treacherous, prating scoundrel, so why did you
trust him?"
"Because I was a fool," roared the young man, biting his nails with
rage.
"Exactly; because you were a fool, and because no honest man would help
you to be guilty of the great sin you meant to commit, of stealing the
daughter of the man who had been your father's best friend--the man who
helped him to make his fortune. Scoundrels are necessary to do
scoundrels' work."
"But he cheated me," cried Richard; "he took my money, and he has not
performed his promise."
"Of course not," said Mrs Glaire. "But when did you know this?" cried
Richard.
"You own to it, then?" cried Mrs Glaire, gazing sharply at him.
"Never mind whether I own it or not. A scoundrel! I'll serve him out
for this."
"I have known it only a few hours," said Mrs Glaire, sinking back on
her couch, and watching the young man, as he stamped up and down the
room.
"But he has thrown me over," cried Richard. "I don't know where the
girl is."
"Who has thrown you over?" said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously.
"You needn't believe me without you like," said Richard; "but I am
speaking the truth now. Sim Slee was to take her across to Lupsthorpe
station, and go with her to town."
"Yes."
"And stay with her till I came, after the heat of the row was over; for
no one would have missed him."
"Well?" said Mrs Glaire, contemptuously.
"Well, he has thrown me over," said Richard. "I met him this morning,
and found he had not been."
"What did he say?" said Mrs Glaire.
"Swore he couldn't find her."
"Then the wolf set the fox to carry off the lamb, and now the fox says
he has not seen the prey," said Mrs Glaire, smiling.
"Damn your riddles and fables!" cried Richard, who was beside himself
with rage. "I tell you he has sold me."
"What you might have expected," said his mother.
"The scoundrel has hidden her somewhere," cried Richard; "and it's his
plan to get more money out of me."
"What you might have expected," said Mrs Glaire, again. "You had
better set the police to watch him and find him out."
"Not while I can do it better myself," said the young man, with a
cunning grin upon his countenance. "You have both been very clever, I
dare say you think; and if the truth were known, you have been setting
Sim Slee to get her away, so as to marry me to your pet; but you won't
succeed."
"You are wrong, Richard; I would not trust Sim Slee with the value of a
penny. I gave him ten pounds for his information, and I have not seen
him since. You had better employ the police."
"Curse the police!" cried Richard, looking hard at his mother's face,
and feeling that she was telling him the truth; "what good are they? I
might have been killed before they would have interfered. But I've not
done with Master Sim Slee yet."
"Then you will not employ the police?"
"No," said Richard, sharply; "the matter's tangled enough as it is; but
he's got the wrong man to deal with, has Sim Slee, if he thinks he has
cheated me so easily."
"Better leave him alone," said Mrs Glaire, wearily. "You have enough
to attend to with your own affairs."
"This is my affair," cried Richard.
"Bombast and sound," said his mother. "I suppose you and Slee are in
collusion, and this is done to blind me, and the rest of the town. But
there, you must follow your own course."
"I mean to," said Richard; and the breach between him and his mother
seemed to be getting wider than ever.
Volume 2, Chapter XI.