'TRUTH IS TRUTH, TO THE END OF TIME.'
Mr. Pergament went back to London by a train which left Eborsham at
half-past five in the afternoon, half an hour after the termination
of the inquest. Churchill went to the station with his solicitor, saw
him into the railway carriage, and only left the platform when the
train had carried Mr. Pergament away on his road to London. It was an
understood thing that Pergament and Pergament were to keep the Penwyn
estate in their hands, and that Churchill's interests were henceforward
to be their interests. To Pergament and Pergament, indeed, it was as if
James Penwyn had never existed, so completely did they transfer their
allegiance to his successor.
Churchill walked slowly away from the station, seemingly somewhat at
a loss how to dispose of his time. He might have gone back to London
with Mr. Pergament, certainly, for he had no further business in the
city of Eborsham. But for some sufficient reason of his own he had
chosen to remain, although he was not a little anxious to see Madge
Bellingham, whom he had not met since the change in his fortunes. He
had written to her before he left London, to announce that fact—but
briefly—feeling that any expression of pleasure in the altered
circumstances of his life would show badly in black and white. He had
expressed himself properly grieved at his cousin's sad death, but had
affected no exaggerated affliction. Those clear dark eyes of Madge's
seemed to be looking through him as he wrote.
'I wonder if it is possible to keep a secret from her?' he thought.
'She has a look that pierces my soul—such utter truthfulness.'
He had ordered his dinner for eight, and it was not yet six, so he had
ample leisure for loitering. He went back to Lowgate and out through
the bar to the dull, quiet road where James met his death. Churchill
Penwyn wanted to see the spot where the murder had been committed.
He had heard it described so often that it was easy enough for him
to find it. A few ragged bushes of elder and blackberry divided the
low marshy ground from the road just at this point. From behind these
bushes the murderer had taken his aim,—at least that was the theory
of the police. Between the road and the river the herbage was sour and
scant, and the cattle that browsed thereon had a solitary and dejected
look, as if they knew they were shut out from the good things of this
life. They seemed to be the odds and ends of the animal creation, and
to have come there accidentally. A misanthropical donkey, a lean cow
or two, some gaunt, ragged-looking horses, a bony pig, scattered wide
apart over the narrow tract of sward along the low bank of the river.
Mr. Penwyn contemplated the spot thoughtfully for a little while, as
if he would fain have made out something which the police had failed
to discover, and then strolled across the grass to the river-bank. The
gloomy solitude of the scene seemed to please him, for he walked on
for some distance, meditative and even moody. Fortune brings its own
responsibilities; and a man who finds himself suddenly exalted from
poverty to wealth is not always gay.
He was strolling quietly along the bank, his eyes bent upon the
river, with that dreaming gaze which sees not the thing it seems to
contemplate, when he was startled from his reverie by the sound of
voices near at hand, and looking away from the water perceived that
he had stumbled on a gipsy encampment. There were the low arched
tents—mere kennels under canvas, where the dusky tribe burrowed at
night or in foul weather—the wood fire—the ever-simmering pot—the
litter of ashes, and dirty straw, and bones, and a broken bottle
or two—the sinister-browed vagabond lying on his stomach like the
serpent, smoking his grimy pipe, and scowling at any chance passer
by—the half-naked children playing among the rubbish, the women
sitting on the ground plaiting rushes into a door-mat. All these
Churchill's eye took in at a glance—something more, too, perhaps, for
he looked at one of the women curiously for a moment, and slackened his
leisurely pace.
She put down her mat, rose, and walked beside him.
'Let me tell your fortune, pretty gentleman,' she began, with the
same professional sing-song in which she had addressed James Penwyn a
few days before. It was the same woman who stopped the late Squire of
Penwyn lower down the river bank.
'I don't want my fortune told, thank you. I know what it is pretty
well,' replied Churchill, in his calm, cold voice.
'Don't say that, pretty gentleman. No one can look into the urn of
fate.'
'And yet you and your tribe pretend to do it,' said Churchill.
'We study the stars more than others do, and learn to read 'em, my
noble gentleman. I've read something in the stars about you since the
night your cousin was murdered.'
'And pray what do the stars say of me?' inquired Churchill, with a
scornful laugh.
'They say that you're a kind-hearted gentleman at bottom, and will
befriend a poor gipsy.'
'I'm afraid they're out in their reckoning, for once in a way.
Perhaps it was Mercury you got the information from. He's a notorious
trickster. And now, pray, my good woman,' turning to see that they
were beyond ken of the rest, 'what did you mean by sending me a letter
to say you could tell me something about my cousin's death? If you
really have any information to give, your wisest course is to carry
it directly to the police; and if your information should lead to the
discovery of the murderer, you may earn a reward that will provide for
you for the rest of your life.'
His eyes were on the woman's face as he spoke, with that intent look
with which he was accustomed to read the human countenance.
'I've thought of that,' answered the gipsy, 'and I was very near going
and telling all I knew to the police the morning after the murder, but
I changed my mind about it when I heard you were here; I thought it
might be better for me to see you first.'
'I can't quite fathom your motive. However as I am willing to give
two hundred pounds reward for such information as may lead to the
apprehension and conviction of the murderer, you may have come to the
right person in coming to me; only, I tell you frankly, that, deeply as
I am interested in the punishment of my cousin's assassin, I had rather
not be troubled about details. I won't even ask the nature of your
information. Take my advice, my good soul, and carry it to the police.
They are the people to profit by it; they are the people to act upon it.'
'Yes, and cheat me of the reward after all choke me off with a
five-pound note, perhaps. I know too much of the police to be
over-inclined to trust 'em.'
'Is your information conclusive?' asked Churchill; 'certain to lead to
the conviction of the murderer?'
'I won't say so much as that, but I know it's worth hearing, and worth
paying for.'
'You may as well tell me all about it, if you don't like to tell the
police.'
'What, without being paid for my secret? No, my pretty gentleman, I'm
not such a fool as that.'
'Come,' said Churchill, with a laugh, 'what does your knowledge amount
to? Nothing, I dare say, that every one else in Eborsham doesn't
share. You know that my cousin has been murdered, and that I am anxious
to find the murderer.'
'I know more than that, my noble gentleman.'
'What then?'
'I know who did it.'
Churchill turned his quick glance upon her again, searching,
incredulous, derisive.
'Come,' he said, 'you don't expect to make me believe that you know the
criminal, and let him slip, and lost your chance of the reward? You are
not that kind of woman.'
'I don't say that I've let him slip, or lost my chance of profiting by
what I know. Suppose the criminal was some one I'm interested in—some
one I shouldn't like to see come to harm?'
'In that case you shouldn't come to me about it. You don't imagine that
I am going to condone my cousin's murder? But I believe your story is
all a fable.'
'It's as true as the planets. We have been encamped here for the last
week, and on the night of the murder we'd all been at the races. Folks
are always kind to gipsies upon a racecourse, and there was plenty to
eat and drink for all of us—perhaps a little too much drink,—and
when the races were over I fell asleep in one of the booths, among
some straw in a corner where no one took any notice of me. My son
Reuben—him, as you saw yonder just now—was in the town, up to very
little good, I dare say, and left me to take care of myself; and when
I woke it was late at night, and the place was all dark and quiet. I
didn't know how late it was till I came through the town and found all
the lights out, and the streets empty, and heard the cathedral clock
strike two. I walked slow, and the clock had struck the half-hour
before I got through the Bar. I was dead tired standing and walking
about the racecourse all day, and as I came along this road I saw
some one walking a little way ahead of me. He walked on, and I walked
after him, keeping on the other side of the way, and in the shadow of
the hedge about a hundred yards behind him, and all at once I heard a
shot fired, and saw him drop down. There was no one to give the alarm
to, and no good in giving it if he was dead. I kept on in the shadow
till I came nearly opposite where he lay, and then I slipped down
into the ditch. There was no water in it, nothing but mud and slime
and duckweed, and such like; and I squatted there in the shadow and
watched.'
'Like some toad in its hole,' said Churchill. 'Common humanity would
have urged you to try to help the fallen man.'
'He was past help, kind gentleman. He dropped without a groan, never so
much as moaned as he lay there. And it was wiser for me to watch the
murderer so as to be able to bear witness against him, when the right
time came, than to scare him away by skreeking out like a raven.'
'Well, woman, you watched and saw—what?'
'I saw a man stooping over the murdered gentleman; a tall man in a
loose overcoat, with a scarf muffled round his neck. He put his hand
in the other one's bosom, to feel if his heart had left off beating, I
suppose, and drew it out again bloody. I could see that, even in the
dim light betwixt night and morning, for I've something of a cat's eye,
your honour, and am pretty well used to seeing in the dark. Candles
ain't over plentiful with our people. He held up his hand dripping with
blood, and pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket with the other
hand to wipe the blood off.'
Churchill turned and looked her in the face, for the first time since
she had begun her narrative.
'Come,' he said, 'you're overdoing the details. Your story would sound
more like truth if it were less elaborate.'
'I can't help the sound of it, sir. There's not a word I'm saying that
I wouldn't swear by, to-morrow, in a court of justice.'
'You've kept your evidence back too long, I'm afraid. You ought to have
given this information at the inquest. A jury would hardly believe your
story now.'
'What, not if I had proof of what I say?'
'What proof, woman?'
'The handkerchief with which the murderer wiped those blood-stains off
his hands!'
'Pshaw!' exclaimed Churchill, contemptuously. 'There are a hundred ways
in which you might come possessed of a man's handkerchief. Your tribe
lives by such petty plunder. Do you suppose that you, a gipsy and a
vagabond, would ever persuade a British jury to believe your evidence,
against a gentleman?'
'What!' cried the woman eagerly, 'then you know it was a gentleman who
murdered your cousin?' 'Didn't you say so just this minute?'
'Not I, my noble gentleman. I told you he was tall, and wore an
overcoat. That's all I told you about him.'
'Well, what next?'
'He wiped the blood off his hand, then put the handkerchief back in
his pocket, as he thought; but I suppose he wasn't quite used to the
work he was doing, for in his confusion he missed the pocket and let
the handkerchief fall into the road. I didn't give him time to find out
his mistake, for while he was stooping over the dead man, emptying his
pockets, I crept across the road, got hold of the handkerchief, and
slipped back to my hiding-place in the ditch again. I'm light of foot,
you see, your honour, though an old woman.'
'What next?'
'He opened the dead man's purse, emptied it, and put the contents in
his own waistcoat pocket. Then he crammed watch and purse down into the
ditch—the same ditch where I was hiding, but a little way off,—took
a stick which he had broken off the hedge, and thrust it down into the
mud under the weeds, making sure, I suppose, that no one could ever
find it there. When he had done this, he pulled himself together, as
you may say, and hurried off as fast as he could go, panting like a
hunted deer, across the swampy ground and towards the river, where they
found his footsteps afterwards. I think it would have been cleverer of
him if he'd left his victim's pockets alone, and let those that found
the body rob it, as they'd have been pretty sure to do. Yet it was
artful of him to clean the pockets out, so as to make it seem a common
case of highway robbery with violence.'
'What did you do with the handkerchief?'
'Took it home with me, to that tent yonder, that's what we call home,
and lighted an end of candle, and smoothed out the handkerchief to
see if there was any mark upon it. Gentlemen are so particular about
their things, you see, and don't like to get 'em changed at the wash.
Yes, there the mark was, sure enough. The name in full—Christian
and surname. It was as much as I could do to read 'em, for the
blood-stains.'
'What was the name?'
'That's my secret. Every secret has its price, and I've put a price on
mine. If I was sure of getting the reward, and not having the police
turn against me, I might be more ready to tell what I know.'
'You're a curious woman,' said Churchill, after a longish pause. 'But I
suppose you've some plan of your own?'
'Yes, your honour, I have my views.'
'As to this story of yours, even supported by the evidence of this
handkerchief which you pretend to have found, I doubt very much if it
would have the smallest weight with a jury. I do not, therefore, press
you to bring forward your information; though as my cousin's next of
kin, it is of course my duty to do my best to bring his assassin to
justice.'
'That's just what I thought, your honour.'
'Precisely. And you did quite right in bringing the subject before me.
It will be necessary for me to know when and where I can find you in
future, so that when the right time comes you may be at hand to make
your statement.'
'We are but wanderers on the face of the earth kind gentleman,' whined
the gipsy. 'It isn't very easy to find us when you want us.'
'That's what I've been thinking,' returned Churchill, musingly. 'If
you had some settled home, now? You're getting old, and must be tired
of roving, I fancy. Sleeping upon straw, under canvas, in a climate in
which east winds are the rule rather than the exception. That sort of
thing must be rather trying at your time of life, I should imagine.'
'Trying? I'm racked with the rheumatics every winter, your honour. My
bones are not so much bones as gnawing wolves—they torment me so.
Sometimes I feel as if I could chop off my limbs willingly, to be quit
of the pain in 'em. A settled home—a warm bed—a fireside—that would
be heaven to me.'
'Well, I'll think about it, and see what can be done for you. In the
meantime I'll give you a trifle to ward off the rheumatism.'
He opened his purse, and gave the woman a bank note, part of an advance
made him by Mr. Pergament that morning. The gipsy uttered her usual
torrent of blessings—the gratitude wherewith she was wont to salute
her benefactors.
'Have you ever been in Cornwall?' asked Churchill.
'Lord love your honour! there isn't a nook or a corner in all England
where I haven't been!'
'Good. If you happen to be in Cornwall any time during the next three
months, you may look me up at Penwyn Manor.'
'Bless you, my generous gentleman, it won't be very long before you see
me.'
'Whenever you please,' returned Churchill, with that air of well-bred
indifference which he wore as a badge of his class. 'Good afternoon.'
He turned to go back to the city, leaving the woman standing alone by
the river brink, looking after him; lost in thought, or lost in wonder.