Mark Stote, the head–gamekeeper on the Nowelhurst estate, was a true
and honest specimen of the West Saxon peasant—slow, tenacious, and
dogged, faithful and affectionate, with too much deference, perhaps,
to all who seemed “his betters”. He was now about fifty years old, but
sturdy and active as ever, with a weather–beaten face and eyes always
in quest of something. His home was a lonely cottage in one of the
plantations, and there he had a tidy and very intelligent wife, and a
host of little anxieties. His children, the sparrow–hawks, the weasels,
the young fellows who “called theirselves under–keepers, and all they
kept was theirselves, sir”,—what with these troubles, and (worst,
perhaps, of all) that nest of charcoal–burners by the bustle–headed
oak, with Black Will at the head of them, sometimes, Mark Stote would
assure us, his head was gone “all wivvery[1] like”, and he could get no
sleep of night–time.
A mizzly, drizzly rain set in before the poor people got home that
evening with the body of Clayton Nowell. Long mournful soughs of wind
ensued, the boughs of the trees went heavily, and it blew half a gale
before morning; but it takes a real storm to penetrate some parts of
the forest. Once, however, let the storm get in, and it makes the
most of the opportunity, raging with triple fury, as a lion does in a
compound—the rage of the imperious blast, when it finds no exit.
In the grey of the morning, two men met, face to face, in the
overhanging of the Coffin Wood. Which was the more scared of the
two, neither could have said; although each felt a little pleased at
the terror of the other. The one of strong nerves was superstitious;
the other, though free from much superstition, was nervous under the
circumstances. The tall and big man was Mark Stote, the little fellow
who frightened him Dr. Rufus Hutton. The latter, of course was the
first to recover presence of mind, for Mark Stoteʼs mental locomotion
was of ponderous metal.
“What brings you here, Mr. Stote, at this time of the morning”?
“And what brings you here, Dr. Hutton”?
Mark might have asked with equal reason. He wondered afterwards why he
did not; the wonder would have been if he had. As it was, he only said—
“To see the rights o’ my young meester, sir”.
“The wrongs, you mean”, said Rufus; “Mark Stote, there is more in this
matter than any man yet has guessed at”.
“You be down upon the truth of it, my word for it but you be, sir.
Iʼve a shot along o’ both of ’em, since ’em wor that haigh, and seeʼd
how they thought of their guns, sir; Meester Clayton wor laike enough
to shoot Meester Cradock ’xidentually; but never wicey warse, sir, as
the parson sayeth, never wicey warse, sir, for I niver see no one so
cartious laike”.
“Mark Stote, do you mean to say that Cradock shot his brother on
purpose”?
Mark stared at Rufus for several moments, then he thrust forth his
broad brown hand and seized him by the collar. Dr. Hutton felt that he
was nothing in that big manʼs grasp, but he would not play the coward.
“Stote, let me go this instant. Iʼll have you discharged this very day
unless you beg my pardon”.
“That you moy then, if you can, meester. A leetle chap coom fram
Ingy, an’ we bin two hunner and feefty year ’long o’ the squire and
his foregoers”! Nevertheless he let Rufus go, and looked over his hat
indignantly.
“You are an honest fellow”, cried Hutton, when he got his breath again;
“an uncommonly honest fellow, although in great need of enlightenment.
It is not in my nature, my man”, here he felt like a patron, getting
over his shaking, so elastic was his spirit; “I assure you, Luke—ah no,
your name is Matthew; upon my word, I beg your pardon, I am almost sure
it is Mark—Mr. Mark, I shall do my utmost for your benefit. Now talk no
more, but act, Mark”.
“I oodnʼt a talked nothing, but for mating with your honour”.
“Then resume your taciturnity, which I see is habitual with you, and
perhaps constitutional”.
Mark Stote felt sore all over. Dr. Hutton now was the collarer. Mark,
in his early childhood, had been to school for a fortnight, and ran
away with a sense of rawness, which any big word renewed.
“Mr. Stote, I will thank you to search in that direction, while I
investigate this way”.
Mark Stote longed to suggest that possibly Dr. Hutton, being (as you
might say) a foreigner, was not so well skilled in examining ground
as a woodman of thirty years’ standing; and therefore that he, old
Mark, should have the new part assigned to him, before it was trampled
by Rufus. But the gamekeeper knew not how to express it; sure though
he was (as all of us are, when truth hits the heart like a hammer)
that something evil would come of slurring the matter so feebly. But
who are we to blame him?—we who transport a poor ignorant girl for
trying to hide her ignominy, while we throttle, before she can cry,
babe Truth, who should be received in society with a “Welcome, little
stranger”!
With the heavy rain–drops hanging like leeches, or running together, as
they do, at every thorn or scale of the bark, seeking provocation to
come down the nape of the neck of any man, Rufus Hutton went creeping
under, trying not to irritate them, pretending that he was quite at
home, and understood them like a jungle. Nevertheless he repented, and
did not thoroughly search more than ten square yards. The things would
knock him so in the face, and the stumps would stick in his trousers
so, and the drops were so bad for his rheumatism; and, as it was quite
impossible for any man to make way there, what on earth was there to
look for?
In spite of all this, he did find something, and stowed it away in his
waistcoat pocket, to be spoken of, or otherwise, according to the turn
of events. And by this he meant no dishonesty, at least in his own
opinion, only he pitied young Cradock most deeply, and would do all he
could in his favour. At the side of the narrow by–path leading from
that woodmanʼs track (by which John Rosedew had approached) into the
far depth of the thicket, Dr. Hutton found, under a blackberry–bush, a
little empty tube, unlike any tube he had seen before. It was about two
inches and a half in length, and three–fourths of an inch in diameter.
Sodden as it was with the rain, and opened partway along the seam, it
still retained, unmistakably, the smell of exploded powder. It seemed
to be made of mill–board, or some other form of paper, with a glaze
upon the outside and some metal foil at the butt of it. What puzzled
Rufus most of all was a little cylinder passing into and across the
bottom, something like a boot–tag.
Dr. Hutton was not at this time skilled in modern gunnery. He knew
how to load a fowling–piece, and what the difference was between a
flint–gun and a percussion–gun; moreover, he had been out shooting once
or twice in India, not from any love of the sport, but to oblige his
neighbours. So he thought himself both acute and learned in arriving at
the conclusion that this was a cartridge–case.
“Mark, does Mr. Cradock Nowell generally shoot with cartridges”?
“He laiketh mostways to be with a curtreege in his toard barryel, sir”.
“Oh, keeps a cartridge in his left barrel, does he; and fires first the
right, I suppose”?
Leaving Mark to continue the search, Rufus returned to the Hall, after
carefully taking the distances between certain important points.
He was bound, as he felt, to lose no time in making the strictest
examination of the poor youthʼs body. For now, in this great calamity,
the management of everything seemed to fall upon Rufus Hutton. Sir
Cradock, of course, was overwhelmed; John Rosedew, although so deeply
distressed, for the boys were like his own to him, was ready to do his
utmost; but, as every one knew, except himself, he was not a man of the
world. Unluckily, too, Mr. Garnet, always the leading spirit wherever
he appeared, had not yet presented himself in this keen emergency.
But his son came up, in the course of the day, to ask how Sir Cradock
Nowell was, and to say that his father was quite laid up with a violent
bilious attack.
Dr. Hutton worked very hard, kept his mind on the stretch continually,
ordered every one right and left. He even contrived to repulse all the
kindred, to the twentieth collateral, who were flocking in, that day,
to rejoice at the manhood of the heir. From old Hogstaff, who knew
all the family, kith and kin, and friends and enemies, he learned the
names of the guests expected, and met them with laconic missives handed
through the closed gates at the lodges. In many cases, it is to be
feared, indignation overcame sympathy; “upstart insolence”! was heard
through the clatter of carriage–windows, very nearly as often as, “most
sad occurrence”! However, most of them were consoled by the prospect of
learning everything at the inquest on the morrow. What could be clearer
than that Cradock must be hanged for Claytonʼs murder? The disgrace
would kill the old baronet. “And then, it would be very painful, but my
wife would be bound, sir, for the sake of her poor children, to prove
her direct descent from that well–known Sir Cradock Nowell, who shot a
man in the New Forest. Ah, I fear it runs in the family”.
But their wrath was most unphilosophical, unworthy of any moralists,
when they found that Rufus had cheated them all as to the time of the
inquest. In every direction he spread a report that the coroner could
not attend until three oʼclock on Friday, while he had arranged very
quietly to begin the proceedings at noon. And he had taken good care
to secure the presence of all the chief men in the neighbourhood—the
magistrates, the old friends of the family, all who were interested
in its honour rather than in its possessions. As none of the baffled
cousins could solace themselves with outcry that the matter had been
hushed up, they discovered that kind feeling had made the scene too sad
for them.
The coroner sat in the principal room at the “Nowell Arms”; the jury
had been to see the body lying at the Hall, and now were to hear
the evidence. Six or seven of the county magistrates sat behind the
coroner, and their clerk was with them. Of course they did not attend
officially, their jurisdiction being entirely several from that of the
present court. But there could be little doubt that their action would
depend, in a great measure, upon what should now transpire.
The jury was chosen carefully to preclude, so far as might be, the
charge of private influence. They were known, for the most part, as men
of independence and probity, and two of them as consistent enemies to
the influence of the Hall. As for general spectators, only a few of the
village–folk allowed their curiosity to conquer their good feeling, or,
perhaps, I should say their discretion; for all were tenants under Sir
Cradock; and, though it was known by this time that Bull Garnet was
ill and in bed, prostrated by one of his old attacks, everybody felt
certain that he would find out who dared to be present, and visit them
pretty smartly.
It would be waste of time to recount all the evidence given; for we
know nearly all that Dr. Hutton and the clergyman would depose. Another
medical man, Dr. Gall, had also examined poor Claytonʼs remains; and
the healing profession, who cure us (like bacon) after they have killed
us, are remarkable for agreeing in public, and quarrelling sadly in
private life. So Dr. Gall deposed exactly as _Mr._ Hutton had done. He
was very emphatic towards Rufus, in the use of the proper prefix; but
we who know the skill displayed presuppose the game certificate.
One part, however, of the medical evidence ought to be repeated. Poor
Clayton had not died from an ordinary small–shot wound or wounds, but
from a ghastly hole through his throat, cut as if by a bullet. As Dr.
Gall, who knew something of guns, very concisely put it, the hole was
like the hole in a door, when boys have fired, as they sometimes do, a
tallow–candle through it. And yet it was fluted at the exit, in the
fleshy part of the neck, as no bullet could have marked it. That was
caused by the shot diverging, beginning to radiate, perhaps from the
opposition encountered.
“In two words”, said Dr. Gall, when they had badgered him in his
evidence, “the deceased was killed either by a balled cartridge, or by
a charge of loose shot fired within six feet of him”.
“Very good”, thought Rufus Hutton, who heard all Dr. Gall said; “Iʼll
keep my cartridge–case to myself. Poor Crad shanʼt have that against
him”.
Hereupon, lest any mist (which goddesses abound in, _vide_ Homer
_passim_) descend upon the eyes or mind of any gentle follower of
my poor Craddyʼs fortunes, let me endeavour to explain Dr. Gallʼs
obscurities.
Cartridges, as used by sportsmen with guns which load at the muzzle,
are packages of shot compact, and rammed down in a body. Some of
them have spiral cases of the finest wire, covered round with paper;
others, used for shorter distance, have only cylinders of paper to
enclose the shot. The interstices between the shots are solidified with
sawdust. The only use of these things is—for they save little time in
loading—to kill our brother bipeds, or quadrupeds, if such we are, at
a longer distance. The shots are prevented from scattering so widely
as they love to do, when freed from the barrelʼs repression. They
fly in a closer body, their expansive instincts being checked, when
first they leave the muzzle, by the constraint of the case and the
tightness of their brotherhood. But it sometimes happens, mainly with
_wire_–cartridges, that the shot can never burst its cerements, and
flies in the compass of a slug, until it meets an obstacle. When this
is so, the quarry escapes; unless a bullet so aimed would have hit it.
This non–expansion is called, in good English, the “balling” of the
cartridge. And those which are used for the longest distance, and for
wild–fowl shooting—green cartridges, as they are called, containing
larger shot—are especially apt to ball.
Dr. Gall was aware, of course, that no one beating for a woodcock would
think of putting a green cartridge into his gun at all; but it seemed
very likely indeed that Cradock might have used a blue one, for a
longer shot with his left barrel; and the blue ones, having wire round
them, sometimes ball, though not so often as their verdant brothers. It
only remains to be said that when a cartridge balls, it flies with the
force, as well as in the compass, of a bullet. With three drachms of
powder behind it, it will cut a hole at forty yards through a two–inch
deal.
Whether it were a balled cartridge or a charge of loose shot at six
feet distance, was the momentous issue. In the former case, there would
be fair reason to set it down as an accident; for the place where
Cradock had first been seen was thirty yards from Clayton; and he might
so have shot him thence, in the dusk, and through the thick of the
covert. But if that poor boy had died from a common charge of shot,
“Murder” was the only verdict true men could return on the evidence set
before them. For Cradock must have fired wilfully at the open throat of
his brother, then flown to the hedge and acted horror when he saw John
Rosedew. Where was Cradock? The jury trembled, and so did Rufus Hutton.
The coroner repeated the question, although he had no right to do it,
at that stage of the evidence.
“Since it occurred he has not been seen”, whispered Rufus Hutton at
last, knowing how men grow impatient and evil when unanswered.
“Let us proceed with the rest of the evidence”, said his honour,
grandly; “if the young man cares for his reputation, he will be here
by–and–by. But I have ridden far to–day. Let us have some refreshment,
gentlemen. Justice must not be hurried”.