After a talk with Luke Marner early in the morning Bill Swinton went
down into Marsden to hear if there was any news of Ned. He was soon back
again.
“Maister Ned's took,” he said as he met Luke, who was standing in front
of his cottage awaiting his return before starting out to renew his
search for Ned.
“Oi hear, at noine o'clock last noight he walked in to Justice
Thompson's and said as he had coom to give hisself up. He said as how
he had been over at Painton, where the old woman as was his nurse lives;
and directly as the news coom in t' arternoon as Foxey had been killed
and he was wanted for the murder, he coom straight over.”
“That's roight,” Luke said heartily; “that settles it. He must ha' been
innocent or he would ha' bolted straight away, and not coom back and
gi'd hisself oop to justice. It were only his hiding away as maade oi
think as he moight ha' done it. Noo in course he will be able to clear
hisself; for if he was over at Painton, why, he couldn't be here--that
be plain to any one.”
“Oi be aveared, by what t' constable told me, as he won't be able vor to
prove it. It seems as how he didn't get to Painton till t' morning. He
says as how he were awalking aboot on t' moor all night. So you see he
will have hard work vor to clear hisself.”
“Then I shall ha' to give meself up,” Luke said quietly. “Ye see as
it can't do him harm now, 'cause he ha' coom back; and ef oi says as I
killed the man they will open the doors, and he will only have to walk
out.”
“Oi ha' been a-thinking of that as I coom back,” Bill said, “and oi
doan't think as oi see my way clear through it now. Firstly, if Maister
Ned did it, of course he will hold his tongue and leave 'em to prove it,
which maybe they can't do; so he has a chance of getting off. But if you
cooms forward and owns up, he will be saaf, if he did it, to say so at
once; and so you will have done him harm rather nor good. Vor of course
he will be able to prove his story better nor you will yourn, and you
will have put the noose round his neck instead of getting it put round
yourn. In the second place, it be loike enough as they lawyer chaps
moight find out as your story weren't true when they coom to twisting
me inside owt in the box. They might foind as oi war a-swearing false.
There be never no saying. They moight prove as that bit of rope warn't
yourn. Polly moight swear as she hadn't been asleep till arter the
time you said you went out, and that you never moved as long as she war
awake. Lots of unexpected things moight turn up to show it war a lie and
then you know they'd drop onto Maister Ned wourse nor ever.”
“I doan't believe they would ask you any questions, Bill. When a
man cooms and says, 'Oi did a murder,' they doan't want to ask many
questions aboot it. They takes it vor granted as he wouldn't be such a
fool as vor to say he did it when he didn't. But th' other point be more
sarous. It be loike enough as t' lad did it, and if he did he will out
wi' it when oi cooms forward. If oi could get to see him first oi moight
argue him into holding his tongue by pointing owt that moi loife bain't
of so much valley as hissen, also that I owe a debt to his feyther.”
“Well, oi ha' been thinking it over,” Bill said, “and moi opinion is
thou had best hold thy tongue till the trial. Thou can'st be in the
court. Ef the jury foind him innocent, of course thou will't hold thy
tongue; ef they foind him guilty, then thou'lt get up in the court, and
thou'lt say to the joodge, civil loike:
“Moi lord, the gentlemen of the jury have made a mistake; oi am the
chap as killed Foxey and oi ha' got a young man here as a witness as moi
words is true.”
“Perhaps that will be the best way, Bill,” Luke said thoughtfully. “Oi
ha' bin thinking how we moight get over Polly's evidence agin me; every
noight oi will get up regular and coom and ha' a talk wi' you; oi will
coom out wi'out my shoes as quiet as a cat, and then if Polly sweers
as oi didn't leave t' house that noight thou can'st sweer as she knows
nothing at all aboot it, as oi ha' been out every noight to see thee.”
So the matter was allowed to stand for the time; and Bill and Luke, when
they had had their breakfast, went down again to Marsden to hear what
was going on. Marsden was greatly excited. The sensation caused by the
news of the murder scarcely exceeded that which was aroused when it was
heard that Ned Sankey had come in and given himself up. Some thought
that at the examination which was to take place at noon he would at once
confess his guilt, while others believed that he would plead not guilty,
and would throw the burden of proving that he killed his stepfather upon
the prosecution.
All through the previous day Mrs. Mulready had been the central object
of interest to the town gossips pending the capture of her son. Dr.
Green had been in and out of the house all day. It was known that she
had passed from one fit of hysterics into another, and that the doctor
was seriously alarmed about her state. Rumors were about that the
servants, having been interviewed at the back gate, said, that in the
intervals of her screaming and wild laughter she over and over again
accused Ned as the murderer of her husband. Dr. Green, when questioned,
peremptorily refused to give any information whatever as to his
patient's opinions or words.
“The woman is well nigh a fool at the best of times,” he said irritably,
“and at present she knows no more what she is saying than a baby. Her
mind is thrown completely off any little balance that it had and she is
to all intents and purposes a lunatic.”
Only with his friend Mr. Porson, who called upon him after the first
visit had been paid to Mrs. Mulready immediately after her husband's
body had been brought in, did Dr. Green discuss in any way what had
happened.
“I agree with you, Porson, in doubting whether the poor boy had a hand
in this terrible business. We both know, of course, that owing to the
bad training and total absence of control when he was a child in India
his temper was, when he first came here, very hot and ungovernable.
His father often deplored the fact to me, blaming himself as being to
a great extent responsible for it, through not having had time to watch
and curb him when he was a child; but he was, as you say, an excellently
disposed boy, and your testimony to the efforts which he has made to
overcome his faults is valuable. But I cannot conceal from you, who are
a true friend of the boy's, what I should certainly tell to no one else,
namely, that I fear that his mother's evidence will be terribly against
him.
“She has always been prejudiced against him. She is a silly, selfish
woman. So far as I could judge she cared little for her first husband,
who was a thousand times too good for her; but strangely enough she
appears to have had something like a real affection for this man
Mulready, who, between ourselves, I believe, in spite of his general
popularity in the town, to have been a bad fellow. One doesn't like to
speak ill of the dead under ordinary circumstances, but his character
is an important element in the question before us. Of course among my
poorer patients I hear things of which people in general are ignorant,
and it is certain that there was no employer in this part of the country
so thoroughly and heartily detested by his men.”
“I agree with you cordially,” Mr. Porson said. “Unfortunately I know
from Ned's own lips that the lad hated his stepfather; but I can't bring
myself to believe that he has done this.”
“I hope not,” the doctor said gravely, “I am sure I hope not; but I have
been talking with his brother, who is almost heartbroken, poor boy, and
he tells me that there was a terrible scene last night. It seems that
Mulready was extremely cross and disagreeable at tea time; nothing,
however, took place at the table; but after the meal was over, and the
two boys were alone together in that little study of theirs, Ned made
some disparaging remarks about Mulready. The door, it seems, was open.
The man overheard them, and brutally assaulted the boy, and indeed
Charlie thought that he was killing him. He rushed in and fetched his
mother, who interfered, but not before Ned had been sadly knocked about.
Mulready then drove off to his factory, and Ned, who seems to have been
half stunned, went out almost without saying a word, and, as you know,
hasn't been heard of since.
“It certainly looks very dark against him. You and I, knowing the boy,
and liking him, may have our doubts, but the facts are terribly against
him, and unless he is absolutely in the position to prove an alibi, I
fear that it will go hard with him.”
“I cannot believe it,” Mr. Porson said, “although I admit that the facts
are terribly against him. Pray, if you get an opportunity urge upon his
mother that her talk will do Ned horrible damage and may cost him his
life. I shall at once go and instruct Wakefield to appear for him, if
he is taken, and to obtain the best professional assistance for his
defense. I feel completely unhinged by the news, the boy has been such a
favorite of mine ever since I came here; he has fought hard against his
faults, and had the makings of a very fine character in him. God grant
that he may be able to clear himself of this terrible accusation!”
Ned's first examination was held on the morning after he had given
himself up, before Mr. Simmonds and Mr. Thompson. The sitting was a
private one. The man who first found Mr. Mulready's body testified to
the fact that a rope had been laid across the road. Constable Williams
proved that when he arrived upon the spot nothing had been touched. Man
and horse lay where they had fallen, the gig was broken in pieces, a
strong rope was stretched across the road. He said that on taking the
news to Mrs. Mulready he had learned from the servants that the prisoner
had not slept at home that night, and that there had been a serious
quarrel between him and the deceased the previous evening.
After hearing this evidence Ned was asked if he was in a position to
account for the time which had elapsed between his leaving home and his
arrival at his nurse's cottage.
He replied that he could only say that he had been wandering on the
moor.
The case was remanded for a week, as the evidence of Mrs. Mulready
and the others in the house would be necessary, and it was felt that
a mother could not be called upon to testify against her son with her
husband lying dead in the house.
“I am sorry indeed to see you in this position,” Mr. Simmonds said to
Ned. “My friendship for your late father, and I may say for yourself,
makes the position doubly painful to me, but I can only do my duty. I
should advise you to say nothing at this period of the proceedings; but
if there is anything which you think of importance to say, and which
will give another complexion to the case, I am ready to hear it.”
“I have nothing to say, sir,” Ned said quietly, “except that I am wholly
innocent of the affair. As you may see by my face I was brutally beaten
by my stepfather on the evening before his death. I went out of the
house scarce knowing what I was doing. I had no fixed intention of going
anywhere or of doing anything, I simply wanted to get away from home. I
went on to the moors and wandered about, I suppose for some hours. Then
I threw myself down under the shelter of a pile of stones and lay there
awake till it was morning. Then I determined to go to the house of my
old nurse and to stop there until I was fit to be seen. In the afternoon
I heard what had taken place here, and that I was accused of the murder,
and I at once came over here and gave myself up.”
“As you are not in a position to prove what you state,” Mr. Simmonds
said, “we have nothing to do but to remand the case until this day week.
I may say that I have received a letter from Dr. Green saying that he
and Mr. Porson are ready to become your bail to any amount; but we could
not think of accepting bail in a charge of murder.”
Ned bowed and followed the constable without a word to the cells. His
appearance had not been calculated to create a favorable impression.
His clothes were stained and muddy; his lips were swollen, his eyes were
discolored and so puffed that he could scarcely see between the lids,
his forehead was bruised and cut in several places. He had passed two
sleepless nights; his voice had lost its clearness of ring and was low
and husky. Mr. Simmonds shook his head to his fellow magistrate.
“I am afraid it's a bad case, Thompson, but the lad has been terribly
ill used, there is no doubt about that. It's a thousand pities he takes
up the line of denying it altogether. If he were to say, what is no
doubt the truth, that having been brutally beaten he put the rope across
the road intending to punish and even injure his stepfather, but without
any intention of killing him, I think under the circumstances of extreme
provocation, and what interest we could bring to bear on the matter,
he would get off the capital punishment, for the jury would be sure to
recommend him to mercy. I shall privately let Green and Porson, who
are evidently acting as his friends in the matter, know that I think it
would be far better for him to tell the truth and throw himself on the
mercy of the crown.”
“They may not find him guilty,” Mr. Thompson said. “The jury will see
that he received very strong provocation; and after all, the evidence
is, so far as we know at present, wholly circumstantial, and unless
the prosecution can bring home to him the possession of the rope, it is
likely enough they will give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“His life is ruined anyhow,” Mr. Simmonds said. “Poor lad! poor lad!
Another fortnight and I was going to apply for a commission for him.
I wish to heavens I had done so at Christmas, and then all this misery
would have been spared.”
As soon as Ned had been led back to the cell Mr. Porson obtained
permission to visit him. He found him in a strange humor.
“Well, my poor boy,” he began, “this is a terrible business.”
“Who do you mean it is a terrible business for, Mr. Porson, me or him?”
Ned spoke in a hard unnatural voice, without the slightest tone of
trouble or emotion. Mr. Porson perceived at once that his nerves were
brought up to such a state of tension by the events of the preceding
forty-eight hours that he was scarce responsible for what he was saying.
“I think I meant for you, Ned. I cannot pretend to have any feeling for
the man who is dead, especially when I look at your face.”
“Yes, it is not a nice position for me,” Ned said coldly, “just at the
age of seventeen to be suspected of the murder of one's stepfather, and
such a nice stepfather too, such a popular man in the town! And not only
suspected, but with a good chance of being hung for it.”
“Ned, my dear boy,” Mr. Porson said kindly, “don't talk in that way. You
know that we, your friends, are sure that you did not do it.”
“Are you quite sure, sir?” Ned said. “I am not quite sure myself. I know
I should have done it if I had had the chance. I thought over all sorts
of ways in which I might kill him, and I wouldn't quite swear that I did
not think of this plan and carry it out, though it doesn't quite seem
to me that I did. I have no very definite idea what happened that night,
and certainly could give but a vague account of myself from the time I
left the house till next morning, when I found myself lying stiff and
half frozen on the moor. Anyhow, whether I killed him or not it's all
the same. I should have done so if I could. And if some one else has
saved me the trouble I suppose I ought to feel obliged to him.”
Mr. Porson saw that in Ned's present state it was useless to talk to
him. Two nights without sleep, together with the intense excitement he
had gone through, had worked his brain to such a state of tension that
he was not responsible for what he was saying. Further conversation
would do him harm rather than good. What he required was rest and, if
possible, sleep. Mr. Porson therefore only said quietly:
“We will not talk about it now, Ned; your brain is over excited with all
you have gone through. What you want now is rest and sleep.”
“I don't feel sleepy, Mr. Porson. I don't feel as if I should ever get
to sleep again. I don't look like it, do I?”
“No, Ned, I don't think you do at present; but I wish you did, my boy.
Well, remember that we, your old friends, all believe you innocent of
this thing, and that we will spare no pains to prove it to the world.
I see,” he said, looking at the table, “that you have not touched your
breakfast. I am not surprised that you could not eat it. I will see that
you have a cup of really good tea sent you in.”
“No,” Ned said with a laugh which it pained Mr. Porson to hear, “I have
not eaten since I had tea at home. It was only the day before yesterday,
but it seems a year.”
On leaving the cell Mr. Porson went to Dr. Green, who lived only three
or four doors away, told him of the state in which he had found Ned,
and begged him to give him a strong and, as far as possible, tasteless
sedative, and to put it in a cup of tea.
“Yes, that will be the best thing,” the doctor replied. “I had better
not go and see him, for talking will do him harm rather than good. We
shall be having him on our hands with brain fever if this goes on. I
will go round with the tea myself to the head constable and tell him
that no one must on any account be permitted to see Ned, and that rest
and quiet are absolutely necessary for him. I will put a strong dose of
opium into the tea.”
Ten minutes later Dr. Green called upon the chief constable and told him
that he feared from what he had heard from Mr. Porson that Ned was in
a very critical state, and that unless he got rest and sleep he would
probably have an attack of brain fever, even if his mind did not give
way altogether.
“I was intending to have him removed at once,” the officer said, “to
a comfortable room at my own house. He was only placed where he is
temporarily. I exchanged a few words with him after the examination and
was struck myself with the strangeness of his tone. Won't you see him?”
“I think that any talk is bad for him,” the doctor said. “I have put
a strong dose of opium in this tea, and I hope it will send him off to
sleep. When he recovers I will see him.”
“I think, doctor,” the constable said significantly, “it would be a good
thing if you were to see him at once. You see, if things go against him,
and between ourselves the case is a very ugly one, if you could get in
the box and say that you saw him here, and that, in your opinion, his
mind was shaken, and that as likely as not he had not been responsible
for his actions from the time he left his mother's house, it might save
his life.”
“That is a capital idea,” Dr. Green said, “and Porson's evidence would
back mine. Yes, I will go in and see him even if my visit does do him
harm.”
“I will move him into his new quarters first,” the officer said; “then
if he drinks the tea he may, if he feels sleepy, throw himself on the
bed and go off. He will be quiet and undisturbed there.”
Two or three minutes later the doctor was shown into a comfortable room.
A fire was burning brightly, and the tea was placed on a little tray
with a new roll and a pat of butter.
Ned's mood had somewhat changed. He received the doctor with a
boisterous laugh.
“How are you, doctor? Here I am, you see, monarch of all I survey. This
is the first time you have visited me in a room which I could consider
entirely my own. Not a bad place either.”
“I hope you will not be here long, Ned,” Dr. Green said, humoring him.
“We shall all do our best to get you out as soon as we can.”
“I don't think your trying will be of much use, doctor; but what's the
odds as long as you are happy!”
“That's right, my boy, nothing like looking at matters cheerfully. You
know, lad, how warmly all your old friends are with you. Would you like
me to bring Charlie next time I come?”
“No, no, doctor,” Ned said almost with a cry. “No. I have thought it
over, and Charlie must not see me. It will do him harm and I shall
break down. I shall have to see him at the trial--of course he must be
there--that will be bad enough.”
“Very well,” the doctor said quietly, “just as you like, Ned. I shall be
seeing you every day, and will give him news of you. I am going to see
him now.”
“Tell him I am well and comfortable and jolly,” Ned said recklessly.
“I will tell him you are comfortable, Ned, and I should like to tell him
that you had eaten your breakfast.”
“Oh, yes! Tell him that. Say I ate it voraciously.” And he swallowed
down the cup of tea and took a bite at the roll.
“I will tell him,” Dr. Green said. “I will come in again this evening,
and will perhaps bring in with me a little medicine. You will be all the
better for a soothing draught.”
“I want no draughts,” Ned said. “Why should I? I am as right as
ninepence.”
“Very well. We will see,” the doctor said. “Now I must be going my
rounds.”
As soon as he had gone Ned began pacing up and down the room, as he
had done the whole of the past night without intermission. Gradually,
however, the powerful narcotic began to take effect. His walk became
slower, his head began to droop, and at last he stumbled toward the bed
in the corner of the room, threw himself heavily down, and was almost
instantly sound asleep. Five minutes later the door opened quietly and
Dr. Green entered.
He had been listening outside the door, had noticed the change in the
character of Ned's walk, and having heard the fall upon the bed, and had
no fear of his rousing himself at his entrance. The boy was lying across
the bed, and the doctor, who was a powerful man, lifted him gently and
laid him with his head upon the pillow. He felt his pulse, and lifted
his eyelid.
“It was a strong dose,” he said to himself, “far stronger than I should
have dared give him at any other time, but nothing less would have
acted, with his brain in such an excited state. I must keep in the town
today and look in from time to time and see how he is going on. It may
be that I shall have to take steps to rouse him.”
At the next visit Dr. Green looked somewhat anxious as he listened to
the boy's breathing and saw how strongly he was under the influence of
the narcotic.
“Under any other circumstances,” he said to the chief constable, who had
entered the room with him, “I should take strong measures to arouse him
at once, but as it is I will risk it. I know it is a risk both for
him and me, for a nice scrape I should get in if he slipped through
my fingers; but unless he gets sleep I believe his brain will go, and
anything is better than that.”
“Yes, poor lad,” the officer said. “When I look at his face I confess my
sympathies are all with him rather than with the man he killed.”
“I don't think he killed him,” the doctor said quietly. “I am almost
sure he didn't.”
“You don't say so!” the chief constable said, surprised. “I had not the
least doubt about it.”
“No. Nobody seems to have the least doubt about it,” the doctor said
bitterly. “I am almost sure that he had nothing to do with it; but if
he did it it was when he was in a state of such passion that he was
practically irresponsible for his actions. At any rate, I am prepared to
swear that his mind is unhinged at present. I will go back now and fetch
two or three books and will then sit by him. He needs watching.”
For several hours the doctor sat reading by Ned's bedside. From time to
time he leaned over the lad, listened to his breathing, felt his pulse,
and occasionally lifted his eyelid. After one of these examinations,
late in the afternoon, he rose with a sigh of relief, pulled down the
blinds, gently drew the curtains, and then, taking his books, went down
and noiselessly closed the door after him.
“Thank God! he will do now,” he said to the chief constable; “but it has
been a very near squeak, and I thought several times I should have to
take immediate steps to wake him. However, the effects are passing off,
and he will soon be in a natural sleep. Pray let the house be kept as
quiet as possible, and let no one go near him. The chances are he will
sleep quietly till morning.”
The doctor called again the last thing that evening, but was told that
no stir had been heard in Ned's room, and the same report met him when
he came again next morning.
“That is capital,” he said. “Let him sleep on. He has a long arrears
to make up. I shall not be going out today; please send in directly he
wakes.”
“Very well,” the officer replied. “I will put a man outside his door,
and the moment a move is heard I will let you know.”