IN WHICH SWITHIN TELLS HIS STORY
IT was anything but a pleasant night, for a damp mist was clinging to
the sides of the hills and condensing on the grey walls of the cottages,
which looked as though some invisible hand was squeezing out a sponge
upon them, yet the bar parlour of the “Packhorse” was uncomfortably
crowded. On the other hand, that of the “Royal” was deserted, and the
landlord might as well have closed his doors and gone across the green
to the help of his competitor, whose legs and arms were kept in
perpetual motion.
It was easy to see even at a glance who was monopolising the limelight
on this occasion, for every chair was turned so that its occupant might
catch a sight (albeit in some cases at the expense of an uncomfortable
twisting of the neck) of Swithin’s face.
He sat in his usual seat upon the hearth, with old Ambrose in the
arm-chair on the other side, and wore the pleased and self-satisfied
expression of the man whose ship has come into port at last, and who can
proceed at his leisure to unload the cargo and reveal its treasures.
Again and again had the tale been told, but each batch of newcomers
found it easy to draw forth a repetition, for Swithin was like a
gramophone in his readiness to oblige the company; and as he fortunately
lacked the mechanical precision of that instrument, even those who had
heard the story more than once bent forward to listen to it again, being
convinced that there would be variations in the treatment though not in
the theme.
Never had Swithin shown himself to better advantage. The account that he
had been required to give in Court had been prepared in advance during
the long weeks that followed the hour of his enlightenment, when his
faculty of putting two and two together had enabled him to see what the
detective was “getting at,” and made him that astute officer’s confidant
and ally. If he stood on stilts during the narration it was because he
was even yet in spirit and imagination addressing the bench of
magistrates who had complimented him on his evidence.
“‘Suck-cink and to t’ point,’ the Chairman said, when he tell’d me I
could stand down!” There could be no doubt that Swithin was immensely
proud of that high-sounding commendation. Nobody present was familiar
with the word the old man had rolled so appreciatively on his tongue,
but what of that? It was manifestly an expression that was used by the
lords of the land to the men they delighted to honour.
“It caps all ever I ’eard tell of; and to think ’at if it ’adn’t been
for Swithin he might never ha’ been fun out!”
“Nay, to think ’at if it hadn’t ha’ been for Swithin, Jagger’d mebbe ha’
got five year!”
It was not honey to Swithin, for the old man cared nothing for such
sickly sweetness, but it was beer and ’bacca in overflowing measure.
“Nay, nay,” he said in a protesting tone that invited contradiction;
“it’s Detective-Sergeant Harker Jagger’s got to thank, not me. A fine
chap you have there, neighbours. Before ever I tipped him t’ wink, as
you may put it, he had t’ thief spotted—_nosed_ him—that’s what it is
wi’ such as Harker. T’ minute he set eyes on him and heard him bluster,
says he to his-sen, ‘That’s my man!’ and there wor nowt to go by. Then I
puts my bit in, on t’ quiet; and as sly as a couple of stoats we’ve
worked together ever sin’; for there’s them at isn’t in t’ force,
neighbours, ’at happen ought to ha’ been.”
“It’s a gift, Swith’n; it’s a gift, lad!” wheezed Ambrose.
“I’m not denying it, Ambrus,” replied Swithin modestly. “I says, ‘If it
wasn’t Inman’s voice ’at cursed when he ran agen t’ wall that night ’at
I wor waiting o’ Crumple to cauve you can call me a liar, says I, and
have done wi’ ’t.’ And he just opened his note-book and put down all I
tell’d him. Then when t’ snaw melted he fun t’ button, and that cooked
Inman his goose.”
“Found what button?” inquired Job; who lived so far away that he had
been one of the last to arrive.
“T’ button off Inman’ owercoat,” replied Swithin. “He fun it t’ same
night you met him i’ t’ Long Close and suspicioned him for t’ thief and
flayed me wi’ your talk about a gallus-button. Not ’at I’m blaming you
for being on t’ wrong scent, ’cos we aren’t all born alike, and some’s
bound to make fools o’ theirsel’s. It wor me ’at fun out for him ’at
after that ’at Inman’s coat wor short o’ that button; but I’ll tak’
to’t, neighbours, ’at it wor Mr. Harker ’at guessed ’at he’d hid t’
money away i’ t’ Scar.”
This admission manifestly caused Swithin an effort; but he brightened
again as he proceeded.
“T’ way he pieced it together caps all, and kep’ his-sen out o’ sight,
so ’at Inman and Stalker thowt he’d dropped t’ business. They’d ha’
stared if they’d ha’ known ’at Detective Swith’n Marsdin was on t’ job!”
He broke off to hide a chuckle in his mug, but the company was too
interested to smile.
“Detective Marsdin by day and Detective Harker by night,” he continued.
“You should ha’ seen Inman’s face i’ t’ dock when he heard Harker
putting two and two together. He had it all as clean as a whistle fro’
t’ time Inman slammed t’ carriage door tul. It seems t’ train he
travelled by wor pulled up by signal a few hunderd yards out o’ t’
station, and him having a carriage to his-sen there wor nowt easier nor
for him to drop out. That wor t’ first link i’ t’ chain.”
Swithin paused and took a refresher.
“Number two! At three o’clock t’ next morning a man summat after his
build catches t’ Scotchman at t’ Junction, and lands i’ Airlee i’ time
to get a’ early train for Hull. That brings us to Number Three!
“T’ ticket collector at Hull swears ’at a man wi’ a brown owercoat ’at
lacked a button passed t’ barrier at nine i’ t’ morning, and t’ same man
passed back at two i’ t’ afternoon. He reckernized him by t’ loose
threads where t’ button sud ha’ been.”
Again Swithin paused, and allowed his eyes to travel over the company
and take toll of their appreciation. Again, too, he refreshed himself
with a drink.
“We had t’ job weighed up by this time,” he went on; not thinking it
necessary to inform his hearers that much of this information had
reached his ears for the first time that morning; “but we hadn’t fun
where he’d hidden t’ brass, and Harker wasn’t for hurrying his-sen. When
there wor no moon he left me i’ charge, as you may say; but there worn’t
many nights i’ t’ month when he didn’t turn up his-sen; and how many
hours, neighbours, when you’ve been warm i’ your beds that man’s been
shivering i’ Gordel he could mebbe tell you better’n me.
“T’ first time he tracked him there, wor t’ night Maniwel’s roof-tree
wor let down. Harker watched him do it, and then followed him across t’
moor to t’ Scar. But Inman wor ower quick for him, and Harker wor flayed
o’ making a noise when he were climbing down t’ slippy rocks wi’ so much
loose stone about, so all he knew wor ’at Inman wor groaning and pitying
his-sen on t’ stones i’ t’ bottom. But by what he made out he’d slipped
down t’ cliff-side and hurt his knee-cap, and a bonny job he had to
trail his-sen home. It wor me ’at let day-light into Harker when he
tell’d me; and it wor me ’at showed him where he could hide his-sen and
spy on him.
“He’d a bit to wait wol Inman’s knee mended, but there came a darkish
night when Inman turned up again, and a woman close on his heels. He
guessed it wor Nancy, but he didn’t follow ayther on ’em, flayed o’ one
or t’other of ’em picking him out. He always had a car and a bike i’ our
shed and kep’ t’ key in his pocket, so he could get off back before
daylight. He knew Inman ’ud be sure to try agen t’ next night, and t’
rest you know as well as me.”
“Well, this is a licker!” remarked Job; “but I’m one o’ them ’at’s heard
nowt, Swithin, or next to nowt. They didn’t keep Jagger, then?”
“Keep Jagger!” The contempt in the old man’s voice was the most emphatic
of negatives. “Do you think, Job, wi’ a man like Mr. Harris i’ t’ chair
they wor likely to keep Jagger? And ’at after what Harker had to tell
’em?’ ‘We’re very much obliged to you, Mr. Drake,’ he says, smiling,
‘and hope you haven’t been put to no inconvenience,’ he says. It wor
different wi’ t’other, and there wor no smiles for him, I can tell you.
He’s got to go to t’ ’Sizes.”
“But they tell me Maniwel’s bailin’ him out,” said Job incredulously.
“And it’s trewth they tell you,” returned Swithin, “‘the trewth, the
’ole trewth, and nothing but the trewth,’” he added with fond
reminiscence of his police-court experiences. “And that’s where I part
comp’ny wi’ Maniwel, being what t’ Scriptur’ calls casting your pearls
before swine.”
“Hearken tul him!” interjected Ambrus, in a thin but decidedly approving
voice. “He’s in his gifted mood to-day, is Swith’n!”
“Two hunderd pound he has to lay down alongside two hunderd more ’at
some Airlee fella offered; to say nowt o’ t’ three hunderd Inman has to
find his-sen. Mr. Harris tell’d him to take his time and think it ower,
and Jagger’s face wor as black as a chimley; but there’s no moving
Maniwel when he sets his-sen; and Jagger stuck up for his dad as we come
home i’ t’ train. He’s a lad ’at’s going to tak’ a bit o’ sizing up, is
Jagger.”
“It’ll be a sad job, neebours,” said Ambrose, “if so be as Maniwel loses
his bits o’ savings after all t’ labour him and Jagger’s put intul their
business, and yon Inman’s a lad ’at I’d trust as far as I could trace
him. But it’s allus been a sayin’ o’ Maniwel’s ’at when a man’s past
mending he’s past fending, and he’s for casting out devils wi’
fair-spokken words. Eh! neebours, but it grieves me to think ’at there’s
all these gurt happenin’s i’ t’ village and my poor owd brain a-whirlin’
round same as a lad’s peg-top. If I’d ha’ been i’ my prime I could ha’
made a set o’ grand verses out on it all, but ivery dog has his day, and
mine’s near-hand ower. Hows’ever, I hope it’ll be Maniwel, and not yon
lad ’at’ll see me put away.”
“If you’ve to wait, Ambrose, while Inman puts you away,” said Swithin
when the old man’s monody had ended, “you’ll have a few years to live
yet; and I should say my-sen ’at Mawm’s finished wi’ him. And good
riddance to bad rubbish, says I, though I’m sorry for Nancy, poor lass!”
There were others who at that moment were thinking of Nancy. Maniwel and
his family were taking counsel together, and even the father’s brow was
troubled.
“I never once gave her a thought, lad,” he said, lifting his eyes to his
son’s face. “It’s awk’ard.”
“Awkward!” repeated Jagger. “What you’ve got to do is to say ’at you’ve
thought better of it, and let him stop where he is. It was a mad idea to
offer all t’ bit we have i’ t’ bank to bail out a scamp like him. I
thought you must ha’ lost your senses when I heard you.”
“It seems such a shame after all t’ mischief he’s done you,” said Hannah
indignantly. “It isn’t as if it ’ud make any difference either, ’cos
there’s naught so certain as ’at he’ll get a long sentence at t’
finish.”
“Now, mother, it’s your turn, and then we’ll hear what Baldwin has to
say.”
“Nay,” said Baldwin, with an emphatic movement of the head, “I’m saying
naught; it’s none o’ my business.”
“Then come, mother!” said Maniwel, with half-humorous encouragement.
“He comes off a black moor, Maniwel,” said the old woman. “Them of his
breed isn’t to be trusted. They’re slippy as eels, and cunning as foxes,
and their heart’s nowt but a bog. They’re t’ devil’s own childer from t’
start...!”
“Why, now, I think that’s as far as we need go, mother,” Maniwel
interrupted with a twinkle in his eye; “for if we went further we could
hardly fare worse. I reckon if he was t’ devil’s own bairn from t’ start
it’s time he had a step-father, and as there’s nob’dy else willing it’ll
ha’ to be me.
“I may ha’ been a bit hasty, Jagger, i’ offering brass ’at didn’t belong
to me, but if we lose it I’ll try to make it up to you, lad; and if I
can’t you’ll none bear me a grudge. I can’t fairly put into words what’s
at t’ back o’ my mind, but yon lad’s nob’dy akin to him by what I can
make out, and this is t’ last chance there’ll be for a good while o’
showing him a kindness. He’ll ha’ lots o’ time for reckoning things up
after a bit, and I could like him to think ’at he’d a friend ’at ’ud
give him a hand and help him to keep straight when he came out. I could
like better still, lad, to think ’at he’d a houseful o’ friends.”
He looked hard at his son, who avoided the glance and still looked
gloomy.
“There’s some men kindness won’t cure,” he growled.
“That’s true,” his father replied, “but you never know who they are.
You’ve got to go on trying, same as t’ doctors, and it’s capping what
bad cases pull round sometimes, if you’ve a bit o’ patience. Now come,
lad! you wouldn’t have me go to Inman and say, ‘I’ve been thinking t’
thing over, and we’re flayed if we bring you home you’ll nobbut get
worse, and mebbe smittle someb’dy else into t’ bargain, so we’ve decided
to leave you to t’ prison doctor?’”
With a hasty exclamation Baldwin pushed back his chair and went out of
doors, and Hannah smiled.
“It was getting over warm for him i’ front o’ t’ fire,” she remarked
caustically. “_He’s_ pulling round very slow.”
“He’s none that bad,” said her grandmother, with a note of defiance in
her voice.
“He’s none that good, neither,” returned Hannah. “It’ll take a deal o’
father’s honey to sweeten him to my taste.”
“Shut up, Hannah,” said her brother, who seemed relieved now that
Baldwin was not present. “He’s making himself useful i’ t’ shop, and his
temper’s improving. He’ll be going back to Keturah, let’s hope, when
Inman’s out o’ t’ road. It’s _him_ I’m bothered about. It’s all very
well experimenting on t’ devil wi’ kindness, but what about Nancy? He’ll
kill her!”
“I’ll go see t’ lass,” said his father, “and talk it over. She’d best go
away while after t’ trial, happen.”
“You’ve no ’casion to bother,” returned his son; “I’ve seen her myself
and she won’t budge. She’s as bad to move as you.”
“But as I’ve getten her into t’ mess I must try to get her out,” said
Maniwel. “She’ll be blaming me, and no wonder; but I doubt if t’ lass
’ud have me go back o’ my word. I’ll step across.”
“Please yourself,” said Jagger, “but she’s made her mind up. She’s
staying where she is, choose what happens. I said Hannah ’ud sleep wi’
her, but she shook her head. She’s got it fixed in her mind that he’s
too fond of his skin to hurt her—‘all for my-sen doesn’t put his neck
in a noose,’ she says. And she won’t blame you, you’ll see. As like as
not she’ll thank you.”
“Then it’ll be summat fresh,” said Maniwel, “and a change is good for
everybody. We shall find some way out between us, I’ll warrant.”