Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "Mr. Ablethorpe put up his hand to command silence.]
DEEP MOAT GRANGE
By
S. R. CROCKETT
HODDER & STOUGHTON
LONDON
MCMVIII
_Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome and London_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
THE EMPTY MAIL GIG
CHAPTER II
POACHER DAVIE
CHAPTER III
THE BAILIFF OF DEEP MOAT GRANGE
CHAPTER IV
THE GOLDEN FARMER
CHAPTER V
WE MEET DAFT JEREMY
CHAPTER VI
THICKER THAN WATER
CHAPTER VII
FAMILY DISCIPLINE
CHAPTER VIII
MISS APHRA'S CURATE
CHAPTER IX
ELSIE'S VISITOR
CHAPTER X
THE BROM-WATER MYSTERY
CHAPTER XI
THE IRON TRAPDOOR
CHAPTER XII
THE BRICKED PASSAGE
CHAPTER XIII
MEYSIE'S BAIRNS
CHAPTER XIV
BROWN PAINT--VARNISHED!
CHAPTER XV
THE MYSTERY OF MYSTERIES--A GIRL
CHAPTER XVI
MR. MUSTARD'S FIRST ASSISTANT
CHAPTER XVII
DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER
CHAPTER XVIII
THE HUNTERS OF MEN
CHAPTER XIX
I HOOK MY FISH
CHAPTER XX
CONCERNING ELSIE
CHAPTER XXI
A JACKDAW'S TAIL FEATHER
CHAPTER XXII
ELSIE'S DIARY
CHAPTER XXIII
WITHIN THE MONKS' OVEN
CHAPTER XXIV
THE BREAKING DAM
CHAPTER XXV
A LETTER FROM JOSEPH YARROW, SENIOR, TO HIS SON
JOSEPH YARROW, JUNIOR
CHAPTER XXVI
COMRADES IN CAPTIVITY
CHAPTER XXVII
HARRIET CAW ON CLERICAL CELIBACY
CHAPTER XXVIII
SATURDAY, THE TENTH OF FEBRUARY
CHAPTER XXIX
THE CALLING OF ELSIE
CHAPTER XXX
HOW ELSIE DANCED FOR HER LIFE
CHAPTER XXXI
THE HERO PLAYS SECOND FIDDLE
CHAPTER XXXII
"THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOOT THE HOOSE"
CHAPTER XXXIII
CONFESSION
CHAPTER XXXIV
JEREMY ORRIN, BREADWINNER
CHAPTER XXXV
THE WITNESSING OF MISER HOBBY
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE HOUSE OF DEATH
CHAPTER XXXVII
I AM HEROIC
CHAPTER XXXVIII
A FIT OF THE SULKS
CHAPTER XXXIX
THE THING THAT SCRATCHED
CHAPTER XL
WANTED--A PENNY IN THE SLOT
CHAPTER I
THE EMPTY MAIL GIG
I was only a young fellow when these things began to happen among us,
but I remember very well the morning when it first came out about the
Bewick carrier. He was postman, too, but had got permission to keep a
horse and cart so that he might make a good little bit by fetching
parcels and orders from town. Town to us meant East Dene, and Bewick,
to which Harry went, lay away to the east among the woods and hills.
It was a lonesome place, Bewick, and, indeed, is still, though now they
have got a railway coming within eight miles or so. But the mystery of
the Moat Wood happened before there was any talk of railways.
Harry Foster was his name--the carrier's, I mean--and a common one
enough in Northumberland. Many a ride have I gotten on his cart, which
was a light one on springs--blue body, orange shafts, panelled with
red, and the shafts lined red. You could tell the cart anywhere. At
least any of the Breckonside boys could, quite a mile away. And if it
was too far to see the cart, there was no mistaking Dappled Bess, the
carrier's horse, which was bright orange colour with white patches,
like the circus pony the clown rides. You've seen that pony. They
have one like that in every circus that has ever come to our town, and
there's few that pass Breckonside--Seager's, and Lord George's, and
Bostock's, the Original and the Real Original, both, and in old days,
so my father tells me, Wombwell's itself. Oh, a great place for
circuses is Breckonside!
I will tell you about it. Breckonside, where I live, is a good big
village about ten miles from the big town of East Dene, where there are
docks and a floating landing-stage, and a jail--everything modern and
up to date--with railways and electricity cars, and a theatre every
night almost, and tramcars that you can hang on behind, and mostly
everything that makes a boy happy--that is, for a day.
But still, give me Breckonside for steady. Why, there's only one
policeman in Breckonside, and he owes my father for his grocer's
bill--oh, ever so much! I shall not tell how much, but he knows that I
know. More than that, he always tells his wife what he is going to do,
and where he is going to go, and she tells Mrs. Robb, her neighbour
over the hedge, and Mrs. Robb tells Mrs. Martin, and Mrs. Martin's
Tommy tells me, or else I lick him. So we know. We like our policeman
in Breckonside. He can make lovely whistles out of bore-tree, and his
name is Codling.
You can see the sea from Breckon Hill, which is wooded to the top, only
by climbing up a tree. And away to the north, Scotland way, you can
make out the hills called Cheviots, like a long, low, blue cloud.
But about the Bewick carrier, Harry Foster, the thing is just this, and
it is a Mystery. I saw the red and blue cart come in--the piebald pony
lame, and the splashboard all leaves and blood, but no Harry Foster to
be seen anywhere.
It was catechism morning, when the school had to go in half an hour
earlier, and the Dissenter folk could keep away their children, if they
liked; and that always made Mr. Mustard, our schoolmaster, very
mad--hopping, indeed. He did not admire Dissenters anyway, at the best
of times, because they had voted against him when he wanted to be
parochial officer, or something. And it was just gall and squirm wood
(as Elsie said) for him to see Ned Tiger, the Wesleyan minister's son,
playing "plunkie" and "ringi" with marbles, when he, Henry Powell
Mustard, a good Churchman and parish clerk, had to be teaching
catechism to half-empty benches. He would glower and rap with his cane
on the desk, and find fault--all the time with an eye on Ned Tiger (his
real name was Wheatly) and Ben Overton, who was a Baptist, and Peter
McNab and Sandy Auld (who, as you can see by their names, were
Presbyterians, and hit anybody who called them Dissenters, being of the
Scotch kirk and good fighters).
Mr. Mustard taught us our duty, how to walk humbly in our sphere, and
so forth, with a supple cane, and he whipped the girls, too, till I
stopped him. But that comes after. He whipped us all that morning,
without forgetting one, and at every good shot of Ned Tiger's alley-taw
he would scowl worse than ever and discover one more unfortunate to
wallop.
Yet he was a good teacher, and made good scholars; kind, too--out of
school, that is. But as we only met him _in_ school, and with a black
frown running across-ways between his eyes, we declined to believe in
his kindness of heart, at any price.
"You are my subjects, great and little, bad or good," he used to preach
to us. "In Breckonside school only the king, the head of the Church,
is greater than I. Like him, I reward the virtuous, and I punish the
naughty!"
We thought within us that virtue must be scarce in Breckonside school.
For as yet but few of the rewards had come our way. Of punishments
there was never any lack, as our skins well knew.
"Some rascals were in my garden last night," said Mr. Mustard, "to the
overturning of my potted geraniums. The size of his boot was a number
six, like what are sold at Provost Yarrow's shop. I will flog all the
boys with number six boots bought at The Shop, unless the culprit
confesses. Show boots."
We showed them, putting them, as commanded, on the wooden desks with a
clatter that made the ink leap in the dirty bottles. We did that on
purpose.
"Quiet, boys, till I compare them," said Mr. Mustard. "Stand out,
you--Tommy Bottle--you have on number six!"
Tommy Bottle dug his knuckles into his eyeholes and whined: "Please,
sir, I was----"
"Don't answer me, sir!" cried Mr. Mustard; "how dare you? Bring me the
long cane!"
"But, please, sir, I----"
"Thomas Bottle, your punishment is doubled!" shouted the master,
bringing the pointer down across Tommy's legs, as a kind of "lick and a
promise." He needn't. Tommy knew well enough what was coming.
"If you please, Mr. Mustard," I called out, "it was me that sold
Tommy's father that pair of boots this morning in my father's shop, so
Tommy couldn't have broken your flowerpots last night, with these boots
on his feet!"
"Eh, what!" cried the master, turning upon me; "well, Tommy is excused.
But the rest----"
The others provided with our sixes were, to wit, Frederick Allen, Widow
Allen's boy; Bob Grey, Eben Pringle, and Dorky Cobb--all poor boys.
But before punishment began I put my own before the master's eyes.
_They were number sixes_.
"If you punish Fred and Bob and Eben and Dorky, you must whip me, too,
Mr. Mustard," I said. "And I shall have to tell my father, and he
won't like it, because nobody will come any more to our shop to buy
boots, if they are to be punished for it at school!"
I always called him Mr. Mustard, because I was the only boy in the
school who dared do it, and I knew he hated it. But, you see, he was
afraid of my father. Most people in Breckonside were afraid of my
father.
So I got them off at that time; but presently the master welted Bob
Grey for making a noise, though he knew perfectly well it was I who had
done it. And the lesson was not over before he had got even with the
lot of them--Fred and Eben and Dorky and all--except me, of course.
I was always first on my bench; and that was the highest in the school.
You see, I wore the best coat, and Mr. Mustard got all his provisions,
his stationery, his coals, his bacon from my father's shop; and he was
supposed to settle his account once a year. He gave my father a little
honey in exchange, when it was the time to draw the sections off from
the hives, but he never paid very much money.
So I could stay away from school when I liked, and so long as my father
did not find out, no harm ever came. Mr. Mustard never asked a
question. He took it for granted that I had been sent somewhere to
look after some of my father's little businesses. The boys knew this,
and used to get me to take them into school if they were late or had
been "kipping"--girls, too, sometimes; though they did not play truant
regularly, as we did. It was a good thing in Breckonside to be my
father's son.
Just after Scripture reading and catechism, if the vicar did not come
to examine us--which was not often--we had half an hour's play, while
the "Dissenters" had multiplication table and Troy weight, to keep them
aware of themselves. So, while Mr. Mustard was rubbing his spectacles
and telling us not to be longer away than half an hour, I took out my
quill gun and cut a smart pellet with the end of it out of a slice of
potato. Then I cut another with the opposite muzzle, and with my
pretty, tiny ramrod I shot it under the desk. It took the end of Mr.
Mustard's nose neatly, making a red bull's-eye, for which Freddy Allen
was promptly whipped, because his mother was a widow and had no
influence with the School Committee.
Now I had promised _my_ mother to go to school that day, and not make
my father angry again. Well, I had been to school, and had been _dux_
of the catechism, which was surely enough glory and honour for one day.
So soon, therefore, as we got out I made a rush down the street towards
the bridge where was Elsie's house--a little cottage by the bridge end,
all covered over with Virginia creeper and roses, though Nancy Edgar,
the "outworker" with whom she lived, was quite poor, and the neighbours
said it was a disgrace that she should make such a flaunting show, for
all the world as if she was rich and could afford to buy plants from a
nursery-man. But everything that Nancy had given her, or found thrown
out as of no use, seemed to do with her, and grew to a marvel.
"I expect it is because I love them!" she said. But privately I
thought it was because of Elsie. She was ever such a nice girl, Elsie
Stennis, and I had kept friends with her, steady, ever since she came
to Breckonside from Thorsby. For she is a town girl, Elsie, and her
father and mother are dead. But no nonsense about her--no love and
stuff. She was what they call pretty, too, but not set up about it in
the least, the way girls get. You would have liked her just as I did.
Nearly every one did--except her grandfather.
Well, when I got to Nance Edgar's cottage, which stands back a bit from
the road, with a joiner's yard at one side, and the road to Bewick
stretching away on the other, I saw Elsie at the gable window. She had
a book in her hand, her finger between the leaves. "Come down, Elsie,"
I called up to her. "I'm not going to school to-day. Come and see the
new greenhouses they are building over at Rushworth Court. I can get
you a ride in a dogcart all the way. Our man Jake is going with a
cargo of paint. Father has the order."
But Elsie wouldn't. She said that it was all very well for me, who was
going to be as rich as ever was, to "kip," but that she meant to learn,
even though Mr. Mustard was a brute.
I said that was nonsense, and that I would give her half of all I had.
At any rate I urged her to come down now. And just at that moment as I
was speaking, she pointed over my shoulder. From the gable window she
could see something I could not.
"Do look--what's that?" she cried. And her voice sounded pale.
It was Harry Foster's wagon, and I could see in a minute that something
was wrong. Oh, it was easy to see that, even for a boy. My ears sung
and I felt suddenly old. But by a sort of instinct I got the piebald
pony by the bridle, which was trailing among her forefeet. And I could
see she had been down, too. Her knees showed that. Poor Dappled Bess
never tried to get away. She had terror in her eye, quite like a human
it was. And she seemed to limp with all her feet at once. I was sorry
for Bess. She and I were friends, you see. I used to ride her about
in our pasture on Sundays, to keep her from feeling lonesome.
But it was Elsie who cried out. She had looked inside the mail cart.
"There's blood!" she gasped. "O Joe!"
She didn't faint just when she was needed to do something, though she
did put her hand to her eyes, and, faith, I don't blame her. She came
and said very quietly: "I'll take the horse's head, Joe--you look. I
can't!"
Then I looked; and just as soon as I put my foot on the step I turned
sick. But I didn't let on, being a big fellow and getting on for
seventeen. There was a big, darkish pool, sort of half dried, under
the seat, and there were cuts that had been made with an axe scattered
all about, even on the soaky bottom of the cart. The whip had been cut
right off three or four inches above the black japanned holder, and the
lash lay over the splashboard of the trap, which was all reddened, too,
and half covered with leaves. I saw some flyfisher's hooks stuck in
the leather apron. There were no mail bags, no parcels for Bewick
Upton--nothing at all in the post trap except what I have told. And it
was quite enough for me. I got down, and we all took the road to the
police station as quick as the pony could limp. I did this because I
knew it was the proper place to go--not because old Silver-buttons
Codling was the least good.
And in the crack of a thumb I had the whole village after me--asking
questions, and wanting to look. But I kept going on, calling out to
the folk to get out of the way.
Then my father came, and I stopped for him, and he looked the trap all
over very carefully, as if it were something he was going to take at a
valuation.
Then he said out loud: "This is a bad business; this is no accident.
It looks to me like murder!"
"MURDER!"
The vicar had bustled up. He and my father almost tied for the first
place in Breckonside, and so it was a settled thing that if my father
thought one thing, the vicar, without any ill feeling, would take the
opposite view.
"And why, Mr. Yarrow, why, may I ask? An accident is much more
admissible--in this quiet parish. The horse has run away. See how
lame he is, and the postman has cut wildly with an axe or other sharp
weapon in order to--to--to rid himself of the furious animal--to get
loose, in short, a foolish thing to do, I admit, but in such
circumstances--I do not see----"
"No, Mr. Alderson, that is just it, you do not see," said my father.
"There is this whip handle cut through six inches from the holder; what
do you make of that?"
"Well," said the vicar, looking for arguments in defence of his
parochial quiet, "there is the lash. There has been an accident, you
see. Perhaps poor Harry went suddenly out of his mind. There is
insanity in the family. He may have cut himself. That would account
for the--the substance of a fluid nature resembling blood, and also for
the lash cut from the butt of the whip!"
My father took the stained thong in his fingers. It was curiously
braided, plait laid over plait, rather flat than round, and exceedingly
neat.
"This is not the lash of Harry Foster's whip," he said. "I ought to
know, because I sold him the whip. This is a worked lash, and if I
mistake not I know the fingers that wrought that pattern."