The evening was chilly, but not cold for the time of year. There was no
moon. The stars were out, and the wind was quiet. Upon the whole, the
inhabitants of the little Somersetshire village of Baxdale agreed that
it was as fine a Christmas-eve as they could remember for some years
past.
Toward eight in the evening the one small street of the village was
empty, except at that part of it which was occupied by the public-house.
For the most part, people gathered round their firesides, with an eye to
their suppers, and watched the process of cooking comfortably indoors.
The old bare, gray church, situated at some little distance from the
village, looked a lonelier object than usual in the dim starlight. The
vicarage, nestling close under the shadow of the church-tower, threw
no illumination of fire-light or candle-light on the dreary scene. The
clergyman's shutters fitted well, and the clergyman's curtains were
closely drawn. The one ray of light that cheered the wintry darkness
streamed from the unguarded window of a lonely house, separated from
the vicarage by the whole length of the church-yard. A man stood at the
window, holding back the shutter, and looking out attentively over the
dim void of the burial-ground. The man was Richard Turlington. The room
in which he was watching was a room in his own house.
A momentary spark of light flashed up, as from a kindled match, in the
burial-ground. Turlington instantly left the empty room in which he had
been watching. Passing down the back garden of the house, and crossing
a narrow lane at the bottom of it, he opened a gate in a low stone wall
beyond, and entered the church-yard. The shadowy figure of a man of
great stature, lurking among the graves, advanced to meet him. Midway
in the dark and lonely place the two stopped and consulted together in
whispers. Turlington spoke first.
"Have you taken up your quarters at the public-house in the village?"
"Yes, master."
"Did you find your way, while the daylight lasted, to the deserted
malt-house behind my orchard wall?"
"Yes, master."
"Now listen--we have no time to lose. Hide there, behind that monument.
Before nine o'clock to-night you will see me cross the churchyard, as
far as this place, with the man you are to wait for. He is going to
spend an hour with the vicar, at the house yonder. I shall stop short
here, and say to him, 'You can't miss your way in the dark now--I will
go back.' When I am far enough away from him, I shall blow a call on
my whistle. The moment you hear the call, follow the man, and drop him
before he gets out of the church-yard. Have you got your cudgel?"
Thomas Wildfang held up his cudgel. Turlington took him by the arm, and
felt it suspiciously.
"You have had an attack of the horrors already," he said. "What does
this trembling mean?"
He took a spirit-flask from his pocket as he spoke. Thomas Wildfang
snatched it out of his hand, and emptied it at a draught. "All right
now, master," he said. Turlington felt his arm once more. It was
steadier already. Wildfang brandished his cudgel, and struck a heavy
blow with it on one of the turf mounds near them. "Will that drop him,
captain?" he asked.
Turlington went on with his instructions.
"Rob him when you have dropped him. Take his money and his jewelry. I
want to have the killing of him attributed to robbery as the motive.
Make sure before you leave him that he is dead. Then go to the
malt-house. There is no fear of your being seen; all the people will be
indoors, keeping Christmas-eve. You will find a change of clothes hidden
in the malt-house, and an old caldron full of quicklime. Destroy the
clothes you have got on, and dress yourself in the other clothes
that you find. Follow the cross-road, and when it brings you into the
highroad, turn to the left; a four-mile walk will take you to the town
of Harminster. Sleep there to-night, and travel to London by the train
in the morning. The next day go to my office, see the head clerk, and
say, 'I have come to sign my receipt.' Sign it in your own name, and you
will receive your hundred pounds. There are your instructions. Do you
understand them?"
Wildfang nodded his head in silent token that he understood, and
disappeared again among the graves. Turlington went back to the house.
He had advanced midway across the garden, when he was startled by the
sound of footsteps in the lane--at that part of it which skirted one of
the corners of the house. Hastening forward, he placed himself behind a
projection in the wall, so as to see the person pass across the stream
of light from the uncovered window of the room that he had left. The
stranger was walking rapidly. All Turlington could see as he crossed the
field of light was, that his hat was pulled over his eyes, and that he
had a thick beard and mustache. Describing the man to the servant on
entering the house, he was informed that a stranger with a large beard
had been seen about the neighborhood for some days past. The account he
had given of himself stated that he was a surveyor, engaged in taking
measurements for a new map of that part of the country, shortly to be
published.
The guilty mind of Turlington was far from feeling satisfied with
the meager description of the stranger thus rendered. He could not be
engaged in surveying in the dark. What could he want in the desolate
neighborhood of the house and church-yard at that time of night?
The man wanted--what the man found a little lower down the lane, hidden
in a dismantled part of the church-yard wall--a letter from a young
lady. Read by the light of the pocket-lantern which he carried with him,
the letter first congratulated this person on the complete success of
his disguise--and then promised that the writer would be ready at her
bedroom window for flight the next morning, before the house was astir.
The signature was "Natalie," and the person addressed was "Dearest
Launce."
In the meanwhile, Turlington barred the window shutters of the room, and
looked at his watch. It wanted only a quarter to nine o'clock. He took
his dog-whistle from the chimney-piece, and turned his steps at once in
the direction of the drawing-room, in which his guests were passing the
evening.