THE DERBY WINNER
As its name denotes, Beorminster was built on a hill, or, to speak more
precisely, on an eminence elevated slightly above the surrounding plain.
In former times it had been surrounded by aguish marshes which had
rendered the town unhealthy, but now that modern enterprise had drained
the fenlands, Beorminster was as salubrious a town as could be found in
England. The rich, black mud of the former bogs now yielded luxuriant
harvests, and in autumn the city, with its mass of red-roofed houses
climbing upward to the cathedral, was islanded in a golden ocean of
wheat and rye and bearded barley. For the purposes of defence, the town
had been built originally on the slopes of the hill, under the very
shadow of the minster, and round its base the massive old walls yet
remained, which had squeezed the city into a huddled mass of
uncomfortable dwellings within its narrow girdle. But now oppidan life
extended beyond these walls; and houses, streets, villas and gardens
spread into the plain on all sides. Broad, white roads ran to Southberry
Junction, ten miles away; to manufacturing Irongrip, the smoke of whose
furnaces could be seen on the horizon; and to many a tiny hamlet and
sleepy town buried amid the rich meadowlands and golden cornfields. And
high above all lorded the stately cathedral, with its trio of mighty
towers, whence, morning and evening, melodious bells pealed through the
peaceful lands.
Beyond the walls the modern town was made up of broad streets and
handsome shops. On its outskirts appeared comfortable villas and stately
manors, gardens and woody parks, in which dwelt the aristocracy of
Beorminster. But the old town, with its tall houses and narrow lanes,
was given over to the plebeians, save in the Cathedral Close, where
dwelt the canons, the dean, the archdeacon, and a few old-fashioned folk
who remained by preference in their ancestral dwellings. From this
close, which surrounded the open space, wherein the cathedral was built,
narrow streets trickled down to the walls, and here was the Seven Dials,
the Whitechapel, the very worst corner of Beorminster. The Beorminster
police declared that this network of lanes and alleys and malodorous
_cul-de-sacs_ was as dangerous a neighbourhood as any London slum, and
they were particularly emphatic in denouncing the public-house known as
The Derby Winner, and kept by a certain William Mosk, who was a sporting
scoundrel and a horsey scamp. This ill-famed hostel was placed at the
foot of the hill, in what had once been the main street, and being near
the Eastgate, caught in its web most of the thirsty passers-by who
entered the city proper, either for sight-seeing or business. It
affected a kind of spurious respectability, which was all on the
outside, for within it was as iniquitous a den as could well be
conceived, and was usually filled with horse-copers and sporting
characters, who made bets, and talked racing, and rode or drove fiery
steeds, and who lived on, and swindled through, the noblest of all
animals. Mr Mosk, a lean light-weight, who wore loud check suits, tight
in the legs and short in the waist, was the presiding deity of this
Inferno, and as the Ormuz to this Ahrimanes, Gabriel Pendle was the
curate of the district, charged with the almost hopeless task of
reforming his sporting parishioners. And all this, with considerable
irony, was placed almost in the shadow of the cathedral towers.
Not a neighbourhood for Mr Cargrim to venture into, since many sights
therein must have displeased his exact tastes; yet two days after the
reception at the palace the chaplain might have been seen daintily
picking his way over the cobble-stone pavements. As he walked he
thought, and his thoughts were busy with the circumstances which had led
him to venture his saintly person so near the spider's web of The Derby
Winner. The bishop, London, curiosity, Gabriel, this unpleasant
neighbourhood--so ran the links of his chain of thought.
The day following his unexpected illness brought no relief to the
bishop, at all events to outward seeming, for he was paler and more
haggard than ever in looks, and as dour as a bear in manner. With Mrs
Pendle he strove to be his usual cheerful self, but with small success,
as occasionally he would steal an anxious look at her, and heave deep
sighs expressive of much inward trouble. All this was noted by Cargrim,
who carefully strove, by sympathetic looks and dexterous remarks, to
bring his superior to the much-desired point of unburdening his mind.
Gabriel had returned to his lodgings near the Eastgate, and to his
hopeless task of civilising his degraded centaurs. Lucy, after the
manner of maids in love, was building air-castles with Sir Harry's
assistance, and Mrs Pendle kept her usual watch on her weak heart and
fluctuating pulse. The bishop thus escaped their particular notice, and
it was mainly Cargrim who saw how distraught and anxious he was. As for
Dr Graham, he had departed after a second unsatisfactory visit, swearing
that he could do nothing with a man who refused to make a confidant of
his doctor. Bishop Pendle was therefore wholly at the mercy of his
suspicious chaplain, to be spied upon, to be questioned, to be watched,
and to be made a prey of in his first weak moment. But the worried man,
filled with some unknown anxiety, was quite oblivious to Cargrim's
manoeuvres.
For some time the chaplain, in spite of all his watchfulness, failed to
come upon anything tangible likely to explain what was in the bishop's
mind. He walked about restlessly, he brooded continuously, and instead
of devoting himself to his work in his usual regular way, occupied
himself for long hours in scribbling figures on his blotting-paper, and
muttering at times in anxious tones. Cargrim examined the
blotting-paper, and strained his ears to gather the sense of the
mutterings, but in neither case could he gain any clue to the bishop's
actual trouble. At length--it was on the morning of the second day after
the reception--Dr Pendle abruptly announced that he was going up to
London that very afternoon, and would go alone. The emphasis he laid on
this last statement still further roused Cargrim's curiosity.
'Shall I not accompany your lordship?' he asked, as the bishop
restlessly paced the library.
'No, Mr Cargrim, why should you?' said the bishop, abruptly and testily.
'Your lordship seems ill, and I thought--'
'There is no need for you to think, sir. I am not well, and my visit to
London is in connection with my health.'
'Or with your secret!' thought the chaplain, deferentially bowing.
'I have every confidence in Dr Graham,' continued Pendle, 'but it is my
intention to consult a specialist. I need not go into details, Mr
Cargrim, as they will not interest you.'
'Oh, your lordship, your health is my constant thought.'
'Your anxiety is commendable, but needless,' responded the bishop,
dryly. 'I am due at Southberry this Sunday, I believe.'
'There is a confirmation at St Mark's, your lordship.'
'Very good; you can make the necessary arrangements, Mr Cargrim. To-day
is Thursday. I shall return to-morrow night, and shall rest on Saturday
until the evening, when I shall ride over to Southberry, attend at St
Mark's, and return on Sunday night.'
'Does not your lordship desire my attendance?' asked Cargrim, although
he knew that he was the morning preacher in the cathedral on Sunday.
'No,' answered Dr Pendle, curtly, 'I shall go and return alone.'
The bishop looked at Cargrim, and Cargrim looked at the bishop, each
striving to read the other's thoughts, then the latter turned away with
a frown, and the former, much exercised in his mind, advanced towards
the door of the library. Dr Pendle called him back.
'Not a word about my health to Mrs Pendle,' he said sharply.
'Certainly not, your lordship; you can rely upon my discretion in every
way,' replied the chaplain, with emphasis, and glided away as
soft-footed as any panther, and as dangerous.
'I wonder what the fellow suspects,' thought the bishop when alone. 'I
can see that he is filled with curiosity, but he can never find out the
truth, or even guess at it. I am safe enough from him. All the same,
I'll have a fool for my next chaplain. Fools are easier to deal with.'
Cargrim would have given much to have overheard this speech, but as the
door and several passages were between him and the talker, he was
ignorant of the incriminating remarks the bishop had let slip. Still
baffled, but still curious, he busied himself with attending to some
business of the See which did not require the personal supervision of Dr
Pendle, and when that prelate took his departure for London by the three
o'clock train, Cargrim attended him to the station, full of meekness and
irritating attentions. It was with a feeling of relief that the bishop
saw his officious chaplain left behind on the platform. He had a secret,
and with the uneasiness of a loaded conscience, fancied that everyone
saw that he had something to conceal--particularly Cargrim. In the
presence of that good young man, this spiritual lord, high-placed and
powerful, felt that he resembled an insect under a microscope, and that
Cargrim had his eye to the instrument. Conscience made a coward of the
bishop, but in the case of his chaplain his uneasy feelings were in some
degree justified.
On leaving the railway station, which was on the outskirts of the modern
town, Cargrim took his way through the brisk population which thronged
the streets, and wondered in what manner he could benefit by the absence
of his superior. As he could not learn the truth from Dr Pendle himself,
he thought that he might discover it from an investigation of the
bishop's desk. For this purpose he returned to the palace forthwith, and
on the plea of business, shut himself up in the library. Dr Pendle was a
careless man, and never locked up any drawers, even those which
contained his private papers. Cargrim, who was too much of a sneak to
feel honourable scruples, went through these carefully, but in spite of
all his predisposition to malignity was unable to find any grounds for
suspecting Dr Pendle to be in any serious trouble. At the end of an hour
he found himself as ignorant as ever, and made only one discovery of any
note, which was that the bishop had taken his cheque-book with him to
London.
To many people this would have seemed a natural circumstance, as most
men with banking accounts take their cheque-books with them when going
on a journey. But Cargrim knew that the bishop usually preferred to
fill his pockets with loose cash when absent for a short time, and this
deviation from his ordinary habits appeared to be suspicious.
'Hum!' thought the chaplain, rubbing his chin, 'I wonder if that
so-called clergyman wanted money. If he had wished for a small sum, the
bishop could easily have given it to him out of the cash-box. Going by
this reasoning, he must have wanted a lot of money, which argues
blackmail. Hum! Has he taken both cheque-books, or only one?'
The reason of this last query was that Bishop Pendle had accounts in two
different banks. One in Beorminster, as became the bishop of the See,
the other in London, in accordance with the dignity of a spiritual lord
of Parliament. A further search showed Mr Cargrim that the Beorminster
cheque-book had been left behind.
'Hum!' said the chaplain again, 'that man must have gone back to London.
Dr Pendle is going to meet him there and draw money from his Town bank
to pay what he demands. I'll have a look at the butts of that
cheque-book when it comes back; the amount of the cheque may prove much.
I may even find out the name of this stranger.'
But all this, as Cargrim very well knew, was pure theory. The bishop
might have taken his cheque-book to London for other reasons than paying
blackmail to the stranger, for it was not even certain that there was
any such extortion in the question. Dr Pendle was worried, it was true,
and after the departure of his strange visitor he had been taken ill,
but these facts proved nothing; and after twisting and turning them in
every way, and connecting and disconnecting them with the absence of the
London cheque-book, Mr Cargrim was forced to acknowledge that he was
beaten for the time being. Then he fancied he might extract some
information from Gabriel relative to his father's departure for London,
for Mr Cargrim was too astute to believe in the 'consulting a
specialist' excuse. Still, this might serve as a peg whereon to hang his
inquiries and develop further information, so the chaplain, after
meditating over his five-o'clock cup of tea, took his way to the
Eastgate, in order to put Gabriel unawares into the witness-box. Yet,
for all these doings and suspicions Cargrim had no very good reason,
save his own desire to get Dr Pendle under his thumb. He was groping in
the dark, he had not a shred of evidence to suppose that the uneasiness
of the bishop was connected with anything criminal; nevertheless, the
chaplain put himself so far out of his usual habits as to venture into
the unsavoury neighbourhood wherein stood The Derby Winner. Truly this
man's cobweb spinning was of a very dangerous character when he took so
much trouble to weave the web.
As in Excelsior, the shades of night were falling fast, when Cargrim
found himself at the door of the curate's lodging. Here he met with a
check, for Gabriel's landlady informed him that Mr Pendle was not at
home, and she did not know where he was or when he would be back.
Cargrim made the sweetest excuses for troubling the good lady, left a
message that he would call again, and returned along Monk Street on his
way back to the palace through the new town. By going in this direction
he passed The Derby Winner--not without intention--for it was this young
man's belief that Gabriel might be haunting the public-house to see Mrs
Mosk or--as was more probable to the malignant chaplain--her handsome
daughter.
As he came abreast of The Derby Winner it was not too dark but that he
could see a tall man standing in the doorway. Cargrim at first fancied
that this might be Gabriel, and paced slowly along so as to seize an
opportunity of addressing him. But when he came almost within touching
distance, he found himself face to face with a dark-looking gipsy,
fiery-eyed and dangerous in appearance. He had a lean, cruel face, a
hawk's beak for a nose, and black, black hair streaked with grey; but
what mostly attracted Cargrim's attention was a red streak which
traversed the right cheek of the man from ear to mouth. At once he
recalled John's description--'A military-looking gentleman with a scar
on the right cheek.' He thought, 'Hum! this, then, is the bishop's
visitor.'