AN INQUEST.
George Chard felt it bitterly hard that after his years of service he
should earn not only the reproof of the head office, but that suspicion
should in some way indefinitely be attached to him.
There had been an inquiry into the robbery, and although there was
nothing in the evidence to directly implicate either himself or his
manager, the tone of head-office letters was by no means comforting.
George had done his best to clear his superior officer. Truth is good,
but it is not always a matter of telling the whole truth in every-day
life.
If people were to say all they knew about each other, society would fall
to pieces rapidly—as rapidly as an iceberg might melt in a volcano.
George Chard knew this, and certain matters of carelessness on his
manager’s part had not come out. It is one thing for a directorate or a
department to frame an elaborate code of rules, and another thing for
their servants to follow them to the letter.
No rules, natural or man-made, can ever be exactly adhered to.
In repayment for his subordinate’s fealty, the Pig had whispered certain
private insinuations against George to the inspector.
Consequently he became a “marked man.”
In every branch of Government employment, in every big commercial
organisation there are “marked men.” They remain in the employ, pending a
valid excuse for their dismissal, perhaps for years, but they do not get
on. They are never promoted; they never receive an increase in salary,
and they are never placed in any position of responsibility.
George Chard knew this, and he saw, as soon as the inquiry had closed,
that his career in the Bulk and Bullion was practically at an end.
The thought stung him like nettles. He was a proud man, and his pride had
been humbled; he was a conscientious man also, and the thought of his
responsibility—of the mother and the five girls dependent on him—alone
prevented him writing at once to the head office and demanding either an
honourable acquittal or an honourable discharge. But then, again, what
charge was he to be acquitted of? None had been brought against him. No
one had accused him. No one had dared insinuate to him openly that he had
anything to do with the removal of the money from the bank safe, yet he
felt that an unseen sword of Damocles hung over his head.
It is this anticipation of disaster—this hourly expectation of something
going to happen—that wears out the strongest energy and shatters the
strongest nervous system.
The town of Wharfdale, unknown to George, was still indefinitely divided
into factions upon the question of the bank robbery, and it was not
improbable that in a very little time someone would have accidentally
given him evil news if the matter of the robbery had not sunk into
insignificance before the discovery of the body of a murdered man down
the river.
The news was brought up by the _Greenwich_ the morning after George, the
deck-hand, had had such remarkable fishing.
First came the outlines which Rumour filled in for herself, dwelling
lovingly on the knife wounds.
Then gossiping tongues began to shape fancies into main facts. A body had
certainly been discovered, and people who saw it were convinced that a
foul and brutal murder had taken place.
The craving for sensation, like the craving for opium or chloral, is
progressive—the patients must keep on increasing the dose. The newspaper
down the river published an “extraordinary” on the morning following
George’s discovery. The “extraordinary,” printed on a “galley-slip,” was
sold all over the district at a penny.
As the day wore on a second edition of the “extraordinary” was issued
containing two or three additional paragraphs of news, and the opinion
which the “authorities” were supposed to entertain on the subject.
The publication of the paper proper was deferred a day to enable the
particulars of the inquest to be inserted.
Then the little sheet put up a record circulation.
The editor congratulated himself on the headlines. Years afterwards, when
strangers came into the office, he would take down the file and point
them out with pride. The first word. “Murder,” was set in woodblock type
an inch and a half deep: “And Inquest,” in the German decorative capitals
usually used for illuminated texts by printers of religious literature.
The actual evidence adduced at the inquest was meagre.
George, the deck-hand, was examined by the Coroner at great length. The
court went into the minutest details regarding the finding of the body,
even bringing out the witness’s private opinions about the matter—what he
thought and what he felt at the time and afterwards.
The Sergeant was sworn. He corroborated George in respect to the fishing;
detailed the appearance of the corpse—to which the audience listened
lovingly—told how he had left the body tied up by the wharf until
daylight, removed same with the assistance of a constable to a shed, and
summoned the doctor.
The doctor was an heroic figure at the inquest. It was with difficulty
that the crowded court refrained from cheering when he stepped into the
witness-box. With the greatest urbanity the presiding J.P., who was
acting Coroner, requested him to explain the technical terms he used in
his evidence. The doctor bowed—a perfectly splendid bow it was generally
admitted—and courteously gave the common English of the thing to his
audience.
A sigh of satisfaction went round when he swore positively that it would
be impossible for deceased to have inflicted upon himself the wounds as
detailed.
The district had not had such a sensation for years. The identity of
the deceased would have remained a matter of absolute doubt had it not
been for an accident. A religious crank, whose name was casually “Joe,”
happened to arrive in the place on the morning of the discovery.
Numbers of people had been taken to the shed by the police.
Some thought they might be able to say who it was, and others wanted
to tell their friends in future years that they had seen an approved
hall-marked murder in cold flesh.
None of those people had thrown the least light on the subject. The body
remained unrecognised until the religious crank went in.
He kissed the book with a reverent smack, and stood awaiting the
interrogations of the Sergeant and the J.P.
The audience, with bated breath, leaned eagerly forward to catch every
word of the religious crank’s low replies.
“It happened quite accidentally,” he said, that he had gone into the shed
where the body on which enquiry was being held had been conveyed, he
believed, from the wharf. He could not swear that it was the same body
which had been taken out of the river in the morning.
He knew Constable Flanagan. He was upon the Lord’s work when he was
requested to enter the shed. He had not heard the constable’s evidence.
It was not a fact that he had recognised the body. (Murmur of
disappointment ran throughout the court). All he had said to Constable
Flanagan was that he believed he had seen deceased before at a meeting
in one of the river towns. He would not swear positively that it was
deceased, but he believed it was. If he remembered rightly, the man’s
name was Gooch-Peter. He could not say what occupation he followed. This
happened about six or eight weeks before. That was all he knew about the
matter. The name might have been Good; he was not sure.
The witness, instead of throwing light upon the case, seemed to have
added to its mystery.
Nobody knew of a person named Good or Gooch along the river, not even the
oldest residents, and oldest residents know everything. Still, the crank
had given the police a clue. Up to that they had been hopelessly fogged.
Now there was some sort of a trail to follow.
The Sergeant applied for an adjournment and wired up the river. He wired
to various persons; none of them could positively swear that they knew a
man answering to the description of deceased.
The crank held a great revival meeting opposite the courthouse that
night. He spoke eloquently, and his testimonies drew a hat full of small
change from the crowd. He preached mostly about the evils of murder and
homicide, and strong drink.
The jury considered the evidence carefully, and then brought in a verdict
to the effect that deceased, whose name was supposed to be either Good or
Gooch, met his death at the hands of some person or persons unknown.
They added a rider to the effect that George, the deck-hand, the
Sergeant, and the witnesses generally had behaved themselves with credit,
and thanked the coroner and the doctor for their kindness and attention.
Altogether, it was a very successful affair, and the jury got more or
less drunk, because everybody wanted to shout for them and be seen
talking to them.
In Australia you cannot expect to talk very long to any distinguished
person without shouting for him.
The excitement remained at fever heat for some days, during which the
movements of the police were watched with absorbing interest.
The police did their best, but the mystery of the murder remained as it
was at first. The people began to get impatient for developments. On the
advice of the authorities, the Government issued a proclamation offering
£500 reward for the conviction of the murderer, adding a free pardon to
any accomplice who would turn Queen’s evidence.
Placards to this effect were posted up on the trees and cross roads, at
the approaches to punts, on wharves, and other places.
Scores of amateur detectives were at work following out all sorts of
impossible theories, and suspicions were cast on almost every doubtful
character on the whole country side.
But day followed day, and the mysterious puzzle still remained without a
key.
* * * * *
Jean Petit had formally adopted Tom and Dave.
So terrified were the lads of the convict and their secret knowledge of
his crime that they obeyed him in fear and trembling.
It was not until the morning after the capture that they managed to get
together and talk. Petit had forbidden them holding converse with one
another, and any signs of communication had brought out the knife.
So Tom and Dave lived for twenty-four hours on that island in awful bad
company, hardly daring to look at one another.
Petit had drawn the boat up in the scrub, hidden it, and so secured it
that they could not launch it without his knowledge and aid.
They might have swum ashore, and each prisoner meditated it, but the
opportunity had not offered, and they were, moreover, still too terrified
to make the attempt.
But now Petit was asleep and snoring, and Tom motioned Dave to sneak
after him into the lantana. They had almost reached the opposite edge of
the island before they drew together and spoke in scared whispers.
Dave broke out first: “I’ll never go piratin’ no more,” he said, with a
dry sob.
“Nor me!” said Tom. “Not without a gun, anyway.”
“Suppose he wakes up now,” said Dave, and shuddered.
Tom had taken the precaution to pick up the billy-can. There was a swamp
in the centre of the island, which Petit had brought them to the evening
before.
“We’ll say we went for a billy of water to bile tea for him,” replied the
elder adventurer.
“What are we going to do?” asked Dave.
“Get away,” replied Tom, “as soon as we see a chance.”
“Why can’t we go now?” queried Dave, looking longingly across the bank of
the river. “I ain’t never swum so far; but I’d as lief be drowned as stay
here. What is he stayin’ here so quiet for?”
“He’s hidin’,” replied Tom, sagaciously. “He’s waitin’ here for a chance
to escape. I say, did you notice the belt?”
“That canvas thing around his waist? I see the end of it stickin’ out
when he stooped over the fire last night.”
“Hsh!” said Tom. “He’s got the money in that!”
“The money that he stole?”
“The money that him and the other cove stole. The money he killed his
mate for!”
“Hush!” cried Dave, looking anxiously around. “Don’t get talkin’ about
that; for God’s sake, Tom don’t.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Tom emphatically. “I wish I never
see it, nor him either. We’d had a all-right time only for him. ’E keeps
croppin’ up, croppin’ up just when things is goin’ straight, and now
’e’s nailed us ’ere an’ took our boat an’ our tent, an’ our tucker, an’
everything!”
“Yes,” agreed Dave, feeling his neck fearfully; “an’ the next thing he’ll
do is cut our throats an’ dig a hole an’ bury us, or throw us in the
river. I’m dead full of the whole thing.”
“Shut up!” retorted Tom; “you’re a nice kind o’ cove to start yelping
like this.”
“Well, so did you last night.”
“I never. It was the smoke got in me eyes.”
“Well, the sun’s got in mine now. What are we goin’ to do?”
“We’ll have to swim!” said Tom, sadly.
“An’ leave ’im the boat? We can’t do any more piratin’ then?”
“There was a note of gladness in Dave’s voice.
“Yes,” replied Tom, savagely; “an’ I’ll have to go back to the old man
and get whaled. It’s his fault, and I’ll—I’ll——”
The boss pirate clenched his fist angrily.
“What’ll you do?” asked Dave, anxiously.
The first mate was not for taking any risks.
“You’ll see what I’ll do,” cried the chief, “an’ so will he!”
A vengeful light shone in Tom Pagdin’s eye.
Dave started.
“What’s that nise?” he whispered.
“Rollicks!” ejaculated Tom, peering through the bushes. “Hist! There’s
a boat! Two men in it! They’re comin’ across the island! They got guns!
They’re after flock pigeons! As soon as they get in near enough we’ll
make a bolt for the edge, an’ swim out to ’em an’ tell ’em!”
They were breathless with excitement and hope.
“Hide!” cried Dave. “Hide! He might a’ heard them coming!”
They heard a soft footstep close behind them, turned, and saw Jean Petit!