Meldon opened the door of Mr. Doyle's private sitting-room without
knocking and walked in. The hotel keeper and Dr. O'Donoghue were sitting
at opposite ends of the table, with a bottle of whisky and a jug of water
between them. Doyle, who was placed with his back to the door, spoke
without looking round.
"Didn't I tell you, Sabina Gallagher," he said, "that if you came into
this room, interrupting me and the doctor, I'd cut the two ears off you,
and send you back to your mother with them in a box in the well of the
car? Did I tell you that or did I not? And now nothing will do you but
to fling open the door as if the Lord-Lieutenant and the rest of them
playboys beyond in Dublin Castle was--"
The expression of Dr. O'Donoghue's face made Mr. Doyle pause. He turned
and saw Meldon standing on the threshold.
"Be damn!" he said, "if it isn't Mr. Meldon. The Major was telling me
last week he was expecting you. You're looking well, so you are.
England agrees with you."
"I can't say as much for you," said Meldon. "You're getting fat. You
ought to take more exercise. Why don't you start a golf links? It would
do you all the good in the world, and be an attraction to the hotel
besides."
"If I'm putting on flesh," said Doyle, "it's a queer thing, for the
life's fair tormented out of me."
"Simpkins, I suppose," said Meldon.
"The same," said Doyle. "The like of that man for making trouble in a
place I never seen; no, nor nobody else."
"I hear," said Meldon, "that the doctor's thinking of poisoning him."
"Whoever told you that told you a lie," said Dr. O'Donoghue; "not but
what--"
"Myself and the doctor," said Doyle, "was making up plans when you come
in on us. We was thinking of what you might call an ambuscade, worked so
as we'd get the better of him without his being able to take the law of
us; and he's mighty fond of the law, that same gentleman--too fond."
"If I can be of any help to you," said Meldon, "you can count on me. I
have a good deal of natural talent for ambuscades. Trot out the details
of your scheme, and I'll be able to tell you in two words whether it's
workable or not."
"They do say," said Doyle, "that he has the fishing let to an English
gentleman; and he's mighty particular about preserving it. Now the
doctor here has the name of being a good fisherman."
"If he goes poaching," said Meldon, "he'll get the worst of it. The
Major appears to have tried that on, and he simply made things unpleasant
for himself, without annoying Simpkins in the least."
"It's not poaching we're thinking of," said Doyle; "but--you know I'm a
magistrate these times, on account of being the Chairman of the Urban
Council."
"I know that; but if you're thinking of dragging up Simpkins before the
Petty Sessions on a bogus charge, you may as well put the idea out of
your head at once. It won't work. You'll have the Major on the Bench
with you, and though he doesn't like the man, I don't think he'd commit
him to prison for cruelty to children, or breaking windows while under
the influence of drink, or anything of that sort, unless he'd really done
it."
"I wouldn't do the like," said Doyle, "and no more would the doctor."
"Our plan," said the doctor, "is to get a salmon, a large salmon."
"Poach it?" said Meldon.
"No; buy it. Doyle would buy it. Then he'd give it to me in the
presence of several witnesses--"
"Sabina would do for one," said Meldon, "She's a most intelligent girl,
and I'm sure she'd swear anything afterwards that she was wanted to."
"She wouldn't have to swear anything but the truth," said Doyle.
"Of course not," said Meldon. "But lots of people won't do even that."
"I'd go up the river," said Dr. O'Donoghue, "and I'd take my rod and
landing-net and the salmon with me, and I'd sit down on the bank and
wait."
"Simpkins," said Doyle, "does be walking up along the river every
evening, so the doctor wouldn't be there for very long before he'd be
caught."
"I see," said Meldon. "The idea would be for Simpkins to prosecute the
doctor for poaching that salmon, and then to trot out Sabina in court to
prove--"
"Sabina and the rest of the witnesses," said Doyle. "We'd have plenty."
"It's not a bad ambuscade at all," said Meldon.
"The Major," said Doyle, "would talk straight to him off the Bench, the
way he'd feel small; and I'd have a word or two myself to say to him
after the Major was done. And the police would be standing round smiling
like--"
"I can't imagine anything more unpleasant," said Meldon, "than being
grinned at by a policeman. All the same, I think it will be better not
to catch him in that ambuscade."
"And why not?" said Doyle.
"The fact is," said Meldon, "I'm thinking of dealing with the man myself,
and I'd rather he was left entirely in my hands for the present."
"Be damn!" said Doyle, "but I wouldn't ask better than just for yourself
to take in hand and hunt him out of the place altogether."
"It's you could do it," said Dr. O'Donoghue.
"It is," said Doyle. "Divil the better man at devising of ambuscades
ever I come across, and I've known some in my day that you might call
gladiators."
"I'm not precisely a professional gladiator," said Meldon modestly; "but
I've studied strategy a little in my time, and I rather think I'll get
the better of Mr. Simpkins. I suppose now you would not object to
attending his funeral?"
"I would not," said Doyle, "if so be there was no risk of my being hanged
for any share I might have in bringing the same about."
"There's not the least chance of that," said Meldon. "You won't have to
do anything except refrain from making a public fool of the man with any
kind of tricks about salmon for the next fortnight."
"What is it you're thinking of doing?" asked Doyle.
"The doctor," said Meldon, "will of course have to sign the death
certificate."
"I'll do that," said Dr. O'Donoghue, "as soon as ever you satisfy me that
the man's dead. If there isn't a hole drilled in his skull with a
bullet, I'll say it's heart failure that finished him. After the way he
behaved to me, I can't be expected to make a _post mortem_ of him. I
daresay the Major was telling you what he did."
"I hear he wanted you to put some ridiculous sanitary act in force
against poor Doyle. That, of course, was quite intolerable."
"There was worse besides that," said Dr. O'Donoghue gloomily.
"He had it put out against the doctor," said Doyle, "that old Biddy
Finnegan died for the want of proper medical attendance, and her a woman
of near ninety, that was bound to die any way, and would have died
sooner, most likely, if the doctor hadn't let her alone the way he did."
"That old woman," said the doctor, "wasn't neglected. She had a bottle
by her, when she died, that I sent out to her less than a week before,
and she hadn't the half of it drunk. What's more, I wouldn't have minded
a bit if Simpkins had had any right to be interfering; but he hadn't.
Thady Flanagan--that's married to old Biddy's grand-daughter--was
contented enough with the way she died, and asked me civilly would I have
any objection to his taking home the half-bottle of medicine for the use
of one of his own children. What I say is, that if the woman's own
relations had no complaint to make, what business had Simpkins to be
putting in his oar? What aggravated me was that kind of gratuitous and
unnecessary interfering."
"I quite see your point," said Meldon. "It's--"
"You've only heard the half of it," said Doyle. "The doctor's backward
in telling you, and small blame to him; but Simpkins wrote off to the
Local Government Board, preferring a lot of charges against the doctor,
and against myself as Chairman of the Board of Guardians--things you'd
wonder any man would have the face to say."
"What happened?" said Meldon.
"We've quietened them down for the present," said Doyle, "but there was a
lot of talk of a sworn enquiry. And what did Simpkins do it for if it
wasn't just the delight he takes in destroying the peace of the town?
You know very well, Mr. Meldon, the way we all pulled together here,
Catholics and Protestants, and never had any bad feeling. And where's
the good of bringing in the Local Government Board to be stirring up
strife among us? But that's not all he did, nor the half or it. He
wrote a letter last October to the Inspector-General of the Police,
complaining of the sergeant beyond, that he wasn't doing his duty."
"I wouldn't expect you to be taking the part of the police," said Meldon.
"You always went in for being a strong Nationalist."
"And so I am," said Doyle. "And so's the doctor. In a general way there
isn't two men in Ireland that hates the police worse than the doctor and
myself; but the sergeant was a decent, poor man, with a long family
dependent on him, and I never heard tell of his doing any harm to any
one."
"Perhaps," said Meldon, "that was the reason Mr. Simpkins complained of
him. After all, Doyle, we must be reasonable. What are the police for,
if it isn't to do harm to people--objectionable people? A policeman who
never injures anybody isn't worth his keep. If what you say about the
sergeant is true, or anything like true, Simpkins was evidently perfectly
justified in acting as he did."
"You won't say that," said Doyle, "when you hear the way it happened.
There's two apple trees in the garden at the back of the house Simpkins
lives in."
"I remember them," said Meldon; "but there never were any apples on them
in my time."
"There were apples on them last year," said Doyle, "however they came
there. Simpkins did be saying it was on account of the way he pruned the
trees; but he'd be talking a long time before I'd believe the like of
that. Any way, the apples were there, and a good many of them. I didn't
see them myself, but they tell me there might have been up to ten stone
altogether. Well, one night the half of them was gone. The gossures
from about the town had them ate."
"Of course they had," said Meldon. "What would you expect?"
"What nobody would expect," said Doyle, "was the temper Simpkins was in
in the morning. He was up and down, in and out of the police barrack,
cursing all sorts. Well, the sergeant came out and looked at the trees,
and he asked Simpkins did he have the apples counted before they were
took, and would he be prepared to swear to them if so be that the police
found them for him. You'd think that would have pacified him, but it
didn't. So the sergeant, who wanted to do the best he could for the
peace of the town, went down to the house again after he had his dinner
ate, and two constables along with him, and asked the girl that does be
with Mr. Simpkins--"
"Sabina's red-haired cousin," said Meldon.
"Asked her," said Doyle, "was there ever a boy about the place at night;
which of course there wasn't, her being a respectable girl that wasn't
keeping company with any boy, unless it might be walking out now and then
of a Sunday with Jamesy Carroll. Believe you me, it took the sergeant
all he knew to quieten down her mother that was over at the barracks
asking for the name of the villain that was taking away her daughter's
character. That night the rest of the apples was took, and Simpkins was
fit to be put in the asylum in the morning. He said the sergeant was an
incompetent jackass.--Wasn't them the words he used, doctor?"
"And others along with them," said Dr. O'Donoghue.
"The sergeant, being a man who'd always kept himself to himself and
didn't mix with bad company, wasn't going near the house while the like
of that language was going on. But he sent down the whole of the four
constables to look at the apple trees; which they did. But Simpkins got
worse instead of better. He wrote off a note to the District Inspector
complaining of the sergeant. But the D.I. had more sense than to take
any notice, knowing well that if there's an apple in the place the
gossures will get it, and small blame to them."
"Sensible man," said Meldon.
"When Simpkins got no satisfaction out of him," said Doyle, "he wrote to
the County Inspector. I can tell you he took mighty little by that. It
was a week after, or maybe more, when he got an answer back. It was
Sabina Gallagher told me what was in it, having got it out of her cousin,
that's servant to Simpkins and seen the letter, so I know what I'm
telling you is the truth. The County Inspector said that if there was
boycotting in the place, or cattle driving, or any kind of lawlessness,
he'd be quick enough to have extra police drafted in and a baton charge
up and down upon the streets of the town; but that he wasn't going to
upset the policy of the Government, and maybe have questions asked about
him in Parliament, for the sake of a few shillings' worth of apples.
You'd think that would have been enough for Simpkins, but it wasn't. He
wrote another letter, up to Dublin Castle, to the Inspector-General of
Police, no less, and the end of it, was that the sergeant was moved out
of this."
"Poor fellow," said Meldon. "Did he mind much?"
"He did not then, for they sent him to a better station. It was only
last week they moved him, there being a lot of enquiries to be gone
through that occupied them the whole of the winter and the spring. The
doctor and myself is thinking of getting up a subscription to present him
with an illuminated address on account of the way he conducted himself to
the satisfaction of the inhabitants of this town while he was in it, and
as a protest against the underhand way that Simpkins went about trying to
injure him and take the bread out of the mouth of his children."
"I'll see that the Major subscribes to that," said Meldon.
"Tell Mr. Meldon," said Doyle, "what it was you were saying ought to be
on the address."
"It isn't worth speaking about," said the doctor modestly.
"You'd better tell me," said Meldon. "If I'm to be responsible for
revenging the wrongs of the community on Simpkins, I ought to be well up
in every detail of what's going on."
"It was nothing but just an idea that came across my mind," said the
doctor.
"It may be only that," said Meldon, "but it may be more. The proper
person to judge of its importance is me. You must have frequently
observed, doctor, that the man to whom an idea occurs is not by any means
the best judge of its value. Sometimes he thinks too much of it. Take
Galileo, for instance. He hit upon the fact that the earth goes round
the sun, and it struck him as immensely important. He gassed on about it
until everybody got so tired of the subject that the authorities had to
put him in prison and keep him there until he said it wasn't true, and
that he'd stop writing books to say it was. As a matter of fact it was
true, but it didn't matter. We'd all be doing exactly the same things we
are doing to-day if he had never made his beastly telescope. On the
other hand, men who get a hold of really important ideas often think very
little of them. Look, for example, at the case of the man who first
thought of collecting a lot of people together and making them pass a
unanimous resolution. He didn't even take the trouble to patent the
process, and now there's no record left of when and where he hit upon his
idea. And yet, where would we all be without unanimous resolutions?
Doyle will tell you that government couldn't be carried on and
civilisation would practically become extinct. It may be the same with
this idea of yours, and I've no doubt that I'll be able to judge if you
tell me what it is."
"He was thinking," said Doyle, "of having a picture of an apple tree in
the top left-hand corner of the address with apples on it, and the same
tree in the top right-hand corner with no apples. He says it would be
agreeable to the sergeant."
"I don't think much of that," said Meldon. "It strikes me as a poor
idea, for three reasons. In the first place, you'll not be able to get
an artist who can draw the apple trees so that any ordinary man could
recognise them. I know what I'm talking about, for apple trees
necessarily come a good deal into ecclesiastical art, the kind of art I'm
most familiar with. I give you my word that the most of them might as
well be elms, and I've seen lots that look like Florence Court yews. As
a general rule, you wouldn't have a ghost of a notion what they were
meant for if it wasn't for Eve and the serpent. In the next place, I
don't think the sergeant would care for it. The whole business must be
painful to him, and he won't care to be obliged every day of his life to
be staring at something that would remind him of Simpkins. In the third
place, it would almost certainly irritate Simpkins when he heard of it."
"It's that," said Doyle, "that we were hoping it might do."
"Well, then, you may put the idea out of your heads. I can't have
Simpkins irritated at present. It's of the utmost possible importance
that he should be lulled into a sense of security. I can't deal with him
if his suspicions are aroused in the slightest. I've been with him
myself this morning, lulling him."
"Were you, then?" said Doyle.
"I was, and I think I may say that for the immediate present he's lulled."
"And how did you like him?" said Doyle.
"My feelings don't matter," said Meldon. "As a matter of fact, judging
from a single interview, I should say he was a pleasant enough,
straightforward sort of man who is trying to do what is right."
"If he tried less," said Doyle, "he'd get on better."
"Quite so. And you mustn't think that I'm going to allow my personal
feelings to interfere with my action in the matter. The Major is my
friend, and I have a great regard for the poor old rector, in spite of
his suffering from bronchitis. Also I like the people of Ballymoy, and
I'm ready to help them in any way I can. So, whatever opinion I have
formed of Simpkins, I'm going to deal with him precisely as if he were my
personal enemy."
"What do you mean to do to him?" said the doctor. "You were speaking
this minute of a _post mortem_."
"It won't come to that," said Meldon, "unless you boggle over the death
certificate. But the precise details of my scheme I must keep to myself
for the present, merely saying that I shall be severe with him. I
couldn't, in fact, be severer if I caught him throwing stones at my
infant daughter."
"Is that the one the Major stood for?" said Doyle. "He was talking to me
about her. A fine child she is by all accounts."
"She was a fine child," said Meldon, "until she got the whooping-cough.
Since then she's been wakeful at night.--By the way, doctor, what do you
think is the proper way to feed a child that has the whooping-cough? At
the present time she's living chiefly on a kind of yellow drink made up
out of a powdery stuff out of a tin which tastes like biscuits when it's
dry. Would you say now that was a good food for her?"
"You can rear a child," said the doctor, "whether it has the
whooping-cough or not, on pretty near anything, so long as you give it
enough of whatever it is you do give it."
"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Meldon; "for my wife has a notion
that food ought to be weighed out by ounces, so that the child wouldn't
get too much at a time."
"Did she get that out of a book?"
"She did--a little book with a pink cover on it. Do you know it?"
"I do not; but if I were you I'd burn it."
"I did," said Meldon. "I burned it before it was a week in the house.
If I hadn't been a good-tempered man, I'd have burned the baby along with
it. She spent the whole of four nights crying, and that was before she
got the whooping-cough, so there was no excuse for her."
"It was hunger ailed her then," said the doctor.
"It was," said Meldon. "I found that out afterwards, for she stopped
crying as soon as ever she got enough to eat. If I'd allowed her to be
brought up on the principles laid down in that book her temper would have
been ruined for life, and she'd have been a nuisance to every one she
came across."
"I wouldn't wonder," said Doyle, "but it might be according to that book
that Simpkins was reared. It would be hard to account for the kind of
man he is any other way."
"It might be that," said the doctor; "but I'd say myself it's more likely
to be the want of beating when he was young that's the matter with him."
"Will you stay and have a bit of dinner now you're here, Mr. Meldon?"
said Doyle. "I wouldn't like your temper would be destroyed for the want
of what I'd be glad to give you."
Meldon looked at his watch.
"Thank you," he said, "I will. It's one o'clock, and Sabina ought to
have the bacon ready by now if she started cooking it the time I told
her."