THE STORM
On the morrow rain fell. At first the village regarded the break in the
weather as a thunderstorm, and harvesters looked to an early resumption
of work. "A sup o' wet'll do nowt any harm," they said. But a steadily
declining "glass" and a continuous downpour that lost nothing in volume
as the day wore caused increasing headshakes, anxious frowns, revilings
not a few of the fickle elements.
The moorland becks became raging torrents. The gorged river rose until
all the low-lying land was flooded, hundreds of pounds' worth of corn in
stook swept away, and all standing crops were damaged to an enormous
extent. Cattle, sheep, poultry, even a horse or two, were caught by the
rushing waters and drowned. A bridge became blocked by floating debris
and crumbled before the flood. Three men were standing on the structure,
idly watching the articles whirling past in the eddies; one, given a
second's firm footing, jumped for dear life and saved himself; the
bodies of the others were found, many days afterwards, jammed against
stakes placed in the stream a mile lower down to prevent fish poachers
from netting an open reach.
This deluge, if indeed aught else were needed, wrecked the Feast. Every
booth was dismantled, each wagon and caravan packed. The van dwellers
only ceased their labors when all was in readiness for a move to the
next fair ground; the Elmsdale week, usually a bright spot in their
migratory calendar, was marked this year with absolute loss. At the
best, and in few instances, it yielded a bare payment of expenses.
Farmers, of course, toiled early and late to avert further disaster.
Stock were driven from pastures where danger threatened; cut corn was
rescued in the hope that the next day's sun might dry it; choked ditches
were raked with long hoes to permit the water to flow off.
At last, when night fell, and the rain diminished to a thin drizzle,
though the barometer gave no promise of improvement, men gathered in the
village street and began comparing notes. Everyone had suffered in some
degree; even the shopkeepers and private residents complained of ruined
goods, gardens rooted up, houses invaded by the all-pervading floods.
But the farmers endured the greatest damage. Some had lost their
half-year's rent, many would be faced with privation and bankruptcy.
Thrice fortunate now were the men with capital--those who could look
forward with equanimity to another season when the wanton havoc
inflicted by this wild raging of the waters should be recouped.
John Bolland, protected by an oilskin coat, crossed the road between the
stockyard and the White House about eight o'clock.
"Eh, Mr. Bollan', but this is a sad day's wark," said a friend who
encountered him.
"Ah, it's bad, very bad, an' likely te be worse," replied John, lifting
his bent head and casting a weather-wise glance over the northerly moor.
"I've lost t' best part o' six acres o' wuts," (oats) growled his
neighbor. "It's hard to know what spite there was in t' clouds te burst
i' that way."
"Times an' seasons aren't i' man's hands," was the quiet answer.
"There'd be ill deed if sunshine an' storm were settled by voates, like
a county-council election."
"Mebbe, and mebbe nut," cried the other testily. "'Tis easy to leave
ivvrything te Providence when yer money's mostly i' stock. Mine happens
te be i' crops."
"An' if mine were i' crops, Mr. Pattison, I sud still thry te desarve
well o' Providence."
This shrewd thrust evoked no wrath from Pattison, who was not a
chapel-goer.
"Gosh!" he laughed, "some folks are lucky. They pile up riches both i'
this wulld an' t' wulld te come. Hooivver, we won't argy. Hev ye heerd
t' news fra' te t' 'Black Lion'?"
"Aboot poor George Pickerin'? Noa. I've bin ower thrang i' t' cow-byre."
"He's married, an' med his will. Betsy is Mrs. Pickerin' noo. But she'll
be a widdy afore t' mornin'."
"Is he as bad as all that?"
"Sinkin' fast, they tell me. He kep' up, like the game 'un he allus was,
until Mr. Croft left him alone wi' his wife. Then he fell away te nowt.
He's ravin', I hear."
"Croft! I thowt Stockwell looked efther his affairs."
"Right enough! But Stockwell's ya (one) trustee, Mr. Herbert's t' other.
So Croft had te act."
"Well, I'm rale sorry for t' poor chap. He's coom tiv a bad end."
"Ye'll be t' foreman o' t' jury, most like?"
"Noa. I'll be spared that job. Martin is a witness, more's t' pity.
Good-night, Mr. Pattison. It'll hu't none if y' are minded te offer up a
prayer for betther weather."
But the prayers of many just men did not avail to save Elmsdale that
night. After a brief respite, the storm came on again with gusty
malevolence. Black despair sat by many a fireside, and in no place was
its grim visage seen more plainly than in the bedroom where George
Pickering died.
Dr. MacGregor watched the fitful flickering of the strong man's life,
until, at last, he led the afflicted wife from the room and consigned
her to the care of her weeping sister and the hardly less sorrowful
landlady.
At the foot of the stairs were waiting P. C. Benson and the reporter of
the _Messenger_.
"It is all over," said the doctor. "He died at a quarter past ten."
"The same hour that he was--wounded," commented the reporter. "What was
the precise cause of death?"
"Failure of the heart's action. It was a merciful release. Otherwise, he
might have survived for days and suffered greatly."
The policeman adjusted his cape and lowered his chin-strap.
"I mun start for Nottonby," he said. "T' inquest'll likely be oppenned
o' Satherday at two o'clock, doctor."
"Yes. By the way, Benson, you can tell Mr. Jonas that the county analyst
and I are ready with our evidence. There is no need for an adjournment,
unless the police require it."
The constable saluted and set off on a lonely tramp through the rain. He
crossed the footbridge over the beck--the water was nearly level with
the stout planks.
"I haven't seen a wilder night for monny a year," he muttered. "There'll
be a nice how-d'ye-do if t' brig is gone afore daylight."
He trudged the four miles to Nottonby. Nearing the outskirts of the
small market town, he was startled by finding the body of a man lying
face down in the roadway. The pelting gale had extinguished his lamp. He
managed to turn the prostrate form and raise the man's head. Then, after
several failures, he induced a match to flare for a second. One glance
sufficed.
"Rabbit Jack!" he growled. "And blind as a bat! Get up, ye drunken
swine. 'Twould be sarvin' ye right te lave ye i' the road until ye were
runned over or caught yer death o' cold."
From the manner of P. C. Benson's language it may be inferred that his
actions were not characterized by extreme gentleness. He managed to
shake the poacher into semi-consciousness. Rabbit Jack, wobbling on his
feet, lurched against the policeman.
"Hello, ole fell', coom along wi' me," he mumbled amiably. "Nivver mind
t' brass. I've got plenty. Good soart, George Pickerin'. Gimme me a
sov', 'e did. Fo-or, 'e's a jolly good feller----"
A further shaking was disastrous. He collapsed again. The perplexed
policeman noted a haymew behind a neighboring gate. He dragged the
nondescript thither by the scruff of his neck and threw him on the lee
side of the shelter.
"He'll be sober by mornin'," he thought. "I hev overmuch thrubble aboot
te tew mysen wi' this varmint."
And so ended the first of the dead man's bequests.
The gathering of a jury in a country village for an important inquest
like that occasioned by George Pickering's death is a solemn function.
Care is exercised in empaneling men of repute, and, in the present
instance, several prominent farmers were debarred from service because
their children would be called as witnesses.
The inquest was held, by permission, in the National schoolhouse. No
room in the inn would accommodate a tithe of the people who wished to
attend. Many journalists put in an appearance, the _Messenger_
reporter's paragraphs having attracted widespread attention.
It was noteworthy, too, that Superintendent Jonas did not conduct the
case for the police. He obtained the aid of a solicitor, Mr. Dane, with
whom the coroner, Dr. Magnus, drove from Nottonby in a closed carriage,
for the rain had not ceased, save during very brief intervals, since the
outbreak on Thursday morning.
The jury, having been sworn, elected Mr. Webster, grocer, as their
foreman, and proceeded to view the body. When they reassembled in the
schoolroom it was seen that Betsy, now Mrs. Pickering, was seated next
her sister. With them were two old people whom a few persons present
recognized as the girls' parents, and by Betsy's side was Mr. Stockwell.
Among the crowd of witnesses were Martin, Frank and Ernest
Beckett-Smythe, and Angele.
The mortification, the angry dismay of Mrs. Saumarez when her daughter
was warned to attend the inquest may well be imagined. The police are no
respecters of persons, and P. C. Benson, of course, ascertained easily
the name of the girl concerning whom Martin and young Beckett-Smythe
fought on the eventful night. She might be an important witness, so her
mother was told to send her to the court.
Mrs. Saumarez disdained to accompany the girl in person, and Francoise
was deputed to act as convoy. The Normandy nurse's white linen bands
offered a quaint contrast to the black robes worn by the other women and
gave material for a descriptive sentence to every journalist in the
room.
Mr. Beckett-Smythe, the vicar, Dr. MacGregor, and the county analyst
occupied chairs beside the Coroner. The latter gentleman described the
nature of the inquiry with businesslike brevity, committing himself to
no statements save those that were obvious. When he concluded, Mr. Dane
rose.
"I appear for the police," he said.
"And I," said Mr. Stockwell, "am here to watch the interests of Mrs.
Pickering, having received her husband's written instructions to that
effect."
A deep hush fell on the packed assembly. The curious nature of the
announcement was a surprise in itself. The reporters' pencils were busy,
and the Coroner adjusted his spectacles.
"The written instructions of the dead man?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, sir. My friend, my lifelong friend, Mr. George Pickering, was but
too well aware of the fate that threatened him. I have here a letter,
written and signed by him on Thursday morning. With your permission, I
will read it."
"I object," cried Mr. Dane.
"On what grounds?" asked the Coroner.
"Such a letter may have a prejudicial effect on the minds of the jury.
They are here to determine, with your direction, a verdict to be arrived
at on certain evidence. This letter cannot be regarded as evidence."
Mr. Stockwell shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not press the point," he said. "I fail to see any harm in showing
a husband's anxiety that his wife should be cleared of absurd
imputations."
Mr. Dane reddened.
"I consider that a highly improper remark," he cried.
The other only smiled. He had won the first round. The jury knew what
the letter contained, and he had placed the case for the police in an
unfavorable light.
The first witness, Pickering's farm bailiff, gave formal evidence of
identity.
Then the Coroner read the dead man's deposition, which was attested by
the local justice of the peace. Dr. Magnus rendered the document
impressively. Its concluding appeal to the Deity turned all eyes on
Betsy. She was pale, but composed. Since her husband's death she had
cried but little. Her mute grief rendered her beautiful. Sorrow had
given dignity to a pretty face. She was so white, so unmoved outwardly,
that she resembled a clothed statue. Kitty wept quietly all the time,
but Betsy sat like one in a dream.
"Catherine Thwaites," said the Coroner's officer, and Kitty was led by
Mr. Jones to the witness stand. The girl's evidence, punctuated by
sobs, was practically a resume of Pickering's sworn statement.
From Mr. Dane's attitude it was apparent that he regarded this witness
as untruthful.
"Of course," he said, with quiet satire in word and look, "as Mr.
Pickering impaled himself on a fork, you did not see your sister plunge
a knife into his breast?"
"No, sir."
"Nor did you run down the garden shrieking: 'Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you've
killed him.' You did not cry 'Murder, murder! Come, someone, for God's
sake'?"
"Yes, sir; I did."
This unexpected admission puzzled the solicitor. He darted a sharp side
glance at Stockwell, but the latter was busy scribbling notes. Every
pulse in court quickened.
"Oh, you did, eh? But why charge your sister with a crime you did not
see her commit?"
"Because she had a knife in her hand, and I saw Mr. Pickering stagger
across the garden and fall."
"In what direction did he stagger?"
"Away from the stackyard hedge."
"This is a serious matter. You are on your oath, and there is such a
thing as being an accessory after----"
Up sprang Stockwell.
"I protest most strongly against this witness being threatened," he
shouted.
"I think Mr. Dane is entitled to warn the witness against false
testimony," said the Coroner. "Of course, he knows the grave
responsibility attached to such insinuations."
Mr. Dane waved an emphatic hand.
"I require no threats," he said. "I have evidence in plenty. Do you
swear that Mr. Pickering did not lurch forward from beneath the pear
tree at the foot of the garden after being stabbed by your sister, who
surprised him in your arms, or you in his arms? It is the same thing."
"I do," was the prompt answer.
The lawyer sat down, shrugging his shoulders.
"Any questions to put to the witness, Mr. Stockwell?" said the Coroner.
"No, sir. I regard her evidence as quite clear."
"Will you--er--does your client Mrs. Pickering wish to give evidence?"
"My client--she is not my client of her own volition, but by the
definite instructions of her dead husband--will certainly give evidence.
May I express the hope that my learned friend will not deal with her too
harshly? She is hardly in a fit state to appear here to-day."
Mr. Dane smiled cynically, but made no reply. He declined to help his
adversary's adroit maneuvers by fiery opposition, though again had Mr.
Stockwell succeeded in playing a trump card.
Betsy was duly warned by the Coroner that she might be charged with the
wilful murder of George Pickering, notwithstanding the sworn deposition
read in court. She could exercise her own judgment as to whether or not
she would offer testimony, but anything she said would be taken down in
writing, and might be used as evidence against her.
She never raised her eyes. Not even those terrible words, "wilful
murder," had power to move her. She stood like an automaton, and seemed
to await permission to speak.
"Now, Mrs. Pickering," said Dr. Magnus, "tell us, in your own words,
what happened."
She began her story. No one could fail to perceive that she was reciting
a narrative learnt by heart. She used no words in the vernacular. All
was good English, coherent, simple, straightforward. On the Monday
morning, she said, she received a letter at Hereford from Fred Marshall,
ostler at the "Black Lion Hotel."
"Have you that letter?" asked the Coroner.
"Yes," interposed Mr. Stockwell. "Here it is."
He handed forward a document. A buzz of whispered comment arose. In
compliance with Dr. Magnus's request, Betsy identified it listlessly.
Then it was read aloud. Apart from mistakes in spelling, it ran as
follows:
"Dear Miss Thwaites.--This is to let you know that George Pickering
is carrying on with your sister Kitty. He has promised to meet her
here on Monday. He has engaged a bedroom here. You ought to come
and stop it. I inclose P.O. for one pound toward your fare.--Yours
truly, Fred Marshall, groom, 'Black Lion,' Elmsdale."
The fact that this meddlesome personage had sent Betsy her railway fare
became known now for the first time. A hiss writhed through the court.
"Silence!" yelled a police sergeant, glaring around with steely eyes.
"There must be no demonstrations of any sort here," said the Coroner
sternly. "Well, Mrs. Pickering, you traveled to Elmsdale?"
"Yes."
"With what purpose in view?"
"George had promised to marry me. Kitty knew this quite well. I thought
that my presence would put an end to any courtship that was going on. It
was very wrong."
"None will dispute that. But I prefer not to question you. Tell us your
own story."
"I traveled all day," she recommenced, "and reached Elmsdale station by
the last train. I was very tired. At the door of the inn I met Fred
Marshall. He was waiting, I suppose. He told me George and Kitty were at
the bottom of the garden."
A quiver ran through the audience, but the police sergeant was watching,
and they feared expulsion.
"He said they had been there ten minutes. I ran through the hotel
kitchen. On a table was lying a long knife near a dish of grouse. I
picked it up, hardly knowing what I was doing, and went into the garden.
When I was halfway down Kitty saw me and screamed. George turned round
and backed away toward the middle hedge. I remember crying
out--some--things--but I do not--know--what I said."
She swayed slightly, and everyone thought she was about to faint. But
she clutched the back of a chair and steadied herself. Mr. Jones offered
her a glass of water, but she refused it.
"I can go on," she said bravely.
And she persevered to the end, substantially repeating her sister's
evidence.
When Mr. Dane rose to cross-examine, the silence in court was appalling.
The girl's parents were pallid with fear. Kitty sat spellbound. Mr.
Stockwell pushed his papers away and gazed fixedly at his client.
"Why did you pick up the knife, Mrs. Pickering?" was the first question.
"I think--I am almost sure--I intended to strike my sister with it."
This was another bombshell. Mr. Dane moved uneasily on his feet.
"Your sister!" he repeated in amazement.
"Yes. She was aware of my circumstances. What right had she to be
flirting with my promised husband?"
"Hum! You have forgiven her since, no doubt?"
"I forgave her then, when I regained my senses. She was acting
thoughtlessly. I believe that George and she went into the garden only
to spite Fred Marshall."
Mr. Dane shook his head.
"So, if we accept your statement, Mrs. Pickering, you harmed no one with
the knife except yourself?"
"That is so."
He seemed to hesitate a moment, but seemingly made up his mind to leave
the evidence where it stood.
"I shall not detain you long," said Mr. Stockwell when his legal
opponent desisted from further cross-examination. "You were married to
Mr. Pickering on Thursday morning by special license?"
"Yes."
"He had executed a marriage settlement securing you L400 a year for
life?"
"Yes."
"And, after the accident, you remained with him until he died?"
"Yes--God help me!"
"Thank you. That is all."
"Just one moment," interposed the Coroner. "Were you previously
acquainted with this man, Marshall, the groom?"
"No, sir. I saw him for the first time in my life when he met me at the
hotel door and asked me if I was Miss Thwaites."
"How did he obtain your Hereford address? It appears to be given in full
on the envelope."
"I don't know, sir."
Fred Marshall was the next witness. He was sober and exceedingly
nervous. He had been made aware during the past week that public opinion
condemned him utterly. His old cronies refused to drink with him. Mrs.
Atkinson had dismissed him; he was a pariah, an outcast, in the village.
His evidence consisted of a disconnected series of insinuations against
Kitty's character, interlarded with protests that he meant no harm. Mr.
Stockwell showed him scant mercy.
"You say you saw Mrs. Pickering, or Betsy Thwaites, as she was at that
time, seize a knife from the table?"
"I did."
"What did you think she meant to do with it?"
"What she did do--stick George Pickerin'. I heerd her bawlin' that oot
both afore an' efther."
The man was desperate. In his own parlance, he might as well be hanged
for a sheep as a lamb, and he would spare no one.
"Oh, indeed! You knew she intended to commit murder?"
"I thowt so."
"Then why did you not follow her?"
"I was skeered."
"What! Afraid of a weak woman?"
"Well, I didn't give a damn if she did stab him! There, ye hev it
straight!"
Mr. Stockwell turned to Mr. Dane.
"If you are looking for accessories in this trumped-up case, you have
one ready to hand," he exclaimed.
"You must be careful what you are saying, Marshall," observed the
Coroner severely. "And moderate your language, too. This court is not a
stable."
"He shouldn't badger me," cried the witness in sullen anger.
"I'll treat you with great tenderness," said Mr. Stockwell suavely, and
a general smile relieved the tension.
"How did you obtain Miss Thwaites's address at Hereford?"
No answer.
"Come, now. Where are your wits? Will you accuse me of badgering you, if
I suggest that you stole a letter from Kitty Thwaites's pocket?"
"I didn't steal it. It was in a frock of hers, hangin' in her bedroom."
"You are most obliging. And the sovereign you sent her? Did you, by any
chance, borrow it from Mrs. Atkinson?"
"Frae Mrs. Atkinson? Wheae said that?"
"Oh, I mean without her knowledge, of course. From Mrs. Atkinson's till,
I should have said."
The chance shot went home. The miserable groom growled a denial, but no
one believed him. Quite satisfied that he had destroyed the man's
credibility, Mr. Stockwell sat down.
"Martin Court Bolland!" said the Coroner's officer, and a wave of
renewed interest galvanized the court. Mr. Dane arranged his papers and
looked around with the air of one who says:
"Now we shall hear the truth of this business."
Martin came forward. It chanced that the first pair of eyes he
encountered were Angele's. The girl was gazing at him with a spiteful
intensity he could not understand. He did not know then of the painful
expose which took place at The Elms when Mrs. Saumarez learnt on the
preceding day that her daughter was a leading figure among the children
in the "Black Lion" yard on the night of the tragedy.
Angele blamed Martin for having betrayed her to the authorities. She did
not know how resolutely he had declined to mention her name; he loomed
large in her mind, to the exclusion of the others.
She regarded him now with a venomous malice all the more bitter because
of the ultra-friendly relations she had forced on him.
He looked at her with genuine astonishment. She reminded him of the
wildcat he choked to death in Thor ghyll. But he had to collect his
wandering faculties, for the Coroner was speaking.