EZEKIEL ASHWORTH, HERBALIST
"Yes, Mary, what is it?"
"It may be I have been foolish, father, but for days I have been
thinking about nothing except this. Being absolutely certain that Paul
is innocent, I--well, you know what my suspicions were, father. But
since you told me what that man Archie Fearn said, I was obliged to
come to the conclusion that you were right."
The girl hesitated a second, and then went on excitedly: "I believe
I've found out something."
The judge looked at his daughter questioningly, but there was no look
of hope in his eyes. He could not believe that what he had failed to
do she could accomplish. He had, as far as he knew, examined every
possible source of evidence, and although he was still fain to believe
as she believed, his reason still pointed to one dread conclusion.
"Until this morning," she went on, "I expect all my inquiries had been
coloured by my belief, but when you destroyed that belief I was obliged
to think on new lines. It's still a question of the knife, isn't it,
father?"
"Yes," said the judge. "It's still a question of the knife. You see
this is the fact, the salient fact, upon which the jury will have to
fasten. Who could have become possessed of it? Paul was always
careful about locking his office, and although it seems unlikely he
should have done what it is believed he has done, what other
explanation can be given?"
"Yes, I see," replied the girl. "But after you'd gone this morning I
remembered lots of things which seemed to have no meaning before. We
know now that Ned Wilson has not borne as good a character in the town
as we thought."
The judge nodded.
"I heard all sorts of strange rumours," went on the girl, "to which I
did not attach much importance. But when you convinced me that Paul's
mother could not possibly have done it, I began to think those rumours
might have some meaning. It may be the thing that I have found out has
no meaning."
"What have you found out?" he asked sharply.
"This. First of all gossip associated Ned Wilson's name with a girl in
this town by the name of Emily Dodson. People say she is very
good-looking."
"Yes. And what then?"
"She worked for Paul," replied the girl. "She has worked in his
factory for some months. Well, this morning a thought struck me, and
I've been to Paul's factory and have examined his books. And I found
out this: Emily Dodson was at work on the day preceding the murder, and
she has never been near the place since. Of course, that of itself may
mean nothing, but the coincidence struck me. It seemed a little
strange that she has never been to work since that day. I went to the
house where she lived and saw her mother. I asked to be allowed to see
her, but the door was closed in my face. It seems that she's been ill
ever since that time, and practically nothing is known of her."
The judge was silent for a considerable time. Evidently Mary's words
had given him food for thought.
"It may mean nothing, father," she went on. "But don't you see? Her
name has been associated with that of Wilson. Gossips say he has
treated her badly. She is also spoken of as one of those dark,
handsome, gipsy-looking girls, who is very passionate. Now then,
think. Might she not have had an opportunity of going to Paul's
office? Might she not by some means have got hold of this knife?
Remember, she was one of his workpeople."
The judge shook his head. "You have very slender evidence for your
assumption, Mary," he said sadly.
"Yes, but is it not strange that she never returned to work, and that
she's been ill in bed ever since? From what I can gather, she's had no
doctor, no one has been allowed to see her, and the night she ceased
working was the night when Ned Wilson was murdered."
"Her illness is easily accounted for," said the judge. "If she were
fond of Wilson, might not his death have so overwhelmed her that her
health broke down? Still----"
"I have seen all these objections," urged Mary. "But don't you see:
Paul didn't do it--he couldn't--his mother could not have done it, and
someone did! I know that what I've been thinking seems to rest upon
pure coincidence, but, father, I've thought, and thought, and thought,
until I'm sure!"
"Tell me more about it," said the judge.
Mary related her experiences of the day, told in detail of her visit to
the factory, described her examination of the books, and then related
her conversation with Emily Dodson's mother.
"Of course, prima facie," he said presently, "you have reasons for your
suspicions, but even if your suspicions are true, what can be done?
Unless we can prove that she took the knife, unless someone saw her
under suspicious circumstances, we are helpless. She might have done
the deed and still Paul might have to be hanged."
"But, father!" cried the girl, and there was a wail of agony in her
voice.
"Oh, do not fear, my child, the thing shall be tested. Everything
shall be sifted to the very bottom. No stone shall be left unturned, I
can assure you of that!"
Again the judge sat for a long time thinking. Presently he started to
his feet. "Mary, you're a clever girl!" he said. "And it seems to me
that if Paul's life is saved, we shall owe everything to you!
But--but---- Go to bed, my child, my brain is weary now, as yours must
be. Let us try and get a little sleep. To-morrow we can act."
The following morning, when the two met again, there was a new light in
Judge Bolitho's eyes, a ring of determination in his voice. His step
was firm, and his whole demeanour suggested an eagerness which for a
long time had been absent.
"I ought to go to Manchester this morning," he said. "You see, my
position is very peculiar. But I shall not go, no matter what happens!"
"You believe there's something in what I told you?" and her voice was
almost hoarse with eagerness.
"There may be something in it," was his reply. "If--if----"
"What?" asked Mary.
"Paul's fate will be decided to-day," replied the judge, and his voice
trembled. "Bakewell finished last night--of course, you have read the
newspapers?--and this morning Paul will speak in his own defence.
Perhaps that will take nearly the whole morning. Then Branscombe will
sum up."
"And you believe----?" cried the girl.
"From what I can see of Branscombe's questions, I should say it is his
opinion that Paul is guilty."
"But it will depend upon the jury!" cried the girl.
"Juries are influenced by the judge's summing-up."
"Oh, if--if----!" cried Mary.
"Yes, I see what is in your mind; but nothing can happen in time to
influence the finding of the jury. You must not build upon that. But
all hope is not lost yet, Mary. We will not give up until the last
moment."
That morning Judge Bolitho's mode of action was not easily to be
explained. He went to all sorts of strange and unthought-of places,
and made many inquiries which, from the standpoint of the casual
observer, were utterly irrelevant to the purpose he had in mind.
Still, he kept on his way, asking his questions, keeping his own
counsel. He visited Paul's factory, asked many questions of the
employees, examined the books which had so interested Mary on the
previous day, went to the scene of the murder. But no one could guess
from his face as to what his conclusions might have been. That he was
anxious and perturbed no one could have doubted; but whether his
inquiries gave him any reason for hope it was impossible to tell.
Strange as it may seem, he did not go to Brunclough Lane, but by means
of many out-of-the-way inquiries he discovered the name of the doctor
who attended the Dodsons in case of illness. He found out, too, that
this doctor was not a fully qualified medical practitioner. Lancashire
is a very Mecca for quack doctors. Long years ago, before legislation
became stringent in this direction, many unqualified men earned large
incomes among the factory hands. Herbalists of all sorts and men who
pretended to cure diseases which baffled all the doctors were in great
demand. In later years, although this practice had been considerably
curtailed, a number of unqualified people managed to eke out a living.
Judge Bolitho discovered that one of these--a certain Ezekiel Ashworth,
who pretended to a knowledge of herbs, and who was also one who held
high place among the spiritualists of the town--had attended in a
medical capacity on various occasions at 27 Brunclough Lane. He also
found out that this man had, during the last few weeks, sent a good
deal of medicine to Mrs. Dodson's house, and, more than all this, that
he had been called in on the previous evening some two hours after Mary
had been in the street.
A little after noon Judge Bolitho found his way to Ezekiel Ashworth's
house. He lived in a small, narrow street in one of a row of cottages
which was let to him for four and sixpence a week. Ezekiel Ashworth
had in his younger days been a weaver, but his mother, who was renowned
as a very wise woman, had imparted her secrets to him before she died,
and he had from that time followed his mother's calling. He also
claimed that the spirits told him many things which doctors were unable
to find out, and thus he imposed upon the credulity of ignorant people.
Indeed, Ezekiel had quite an extensive practice, and many there were,
even among those in affluent circumstances, who sought his aid.
When Judge Bolitho knocked at Ezekiel's door it was opened by the man
himself. He was attired in a suit of shabby broadcloth; a greasy
frock-coat hung below his knees, and his linen had evidently been a
stranger to the laundry for some considerable time. His feet were
encased in a pair of gaily coloured carpet slippers.
On seeing Judge Bolitho he assumed quite a professional air. "What can
I do for you, my dear sir?" he said. "You don't look very well."
"No, I am far from well," replied the judge.
"Ay, I thought so. You're a stranger in these parts, I reckon?"
"I am not a Brunford man," replied the judge; "but I happened to be
here, and, hearing about many of your wonderful cures, thought I would
call and see you."
"Ay," replied Ezekiel. "I know a good deal more about doctorin' than
half of these chaps with a lot of letters to their names; but the
Government has made it very hard on us, and we can't do what we would."
"I see," replied the judge. "But I hear you have a fairly extensive
practice, all the same."
"And no wonder," replied Ezekiel. "I cure cases which the doctors give
up, and I don't charge a quarter as much as they do. Just think on
't--only sixpence for a bottle of medicine and a shilling a visit!"
"But what do you do in the case of a fatal illness?" asked the judge.
"That's where the hardness comes in," replied Ezekiel. "Then the poor
people have to get a fully qualified man for the certificate. But
you'll noan come about that, I reckon? You've come about yoursen?"
"No," said the judge. "I've come to inquire into your rights to
practise medicine!"
"What do you mean? You're noan one of these inspectors, are you? I
call this a sort of snake-in-the-grass proceeding! It's noan fair to
come in like one ill, and then pounce upon a chap!"
Ezekiel gave another look at the judge, and then decided that he had
better be civil. He realised that the man before him was not one who
could be bullied.
"Look here, maaster," he said, "I never do owt agin law, and although,
as you say, I've attended a lot of people, I've never been had before
the beaks. Whenever a patient of mine gets near the danger line I
always insist upon a fully qualified doctor being sent for. I hope
you'll noan be hard on me."
"That depends," replied the judge. "The truth of it is, Mr. Ashworth,
I've heard strange rumours about you, and, while I do not wish to take
any harsh measure, I want a proper understanding. You often treat
patients without ever having seen them, I'm told?"
"But never in a way as can do them any harm," replied Ezekiel. "When
people come and describe symptoms, I send medicines to them; but my
medicines are made up of yarbs, and canna hurt onybody."
"Are you sure of that?" asked the judge.
"Ay, I'm sure."
"Then what about the girl Emily Dodson, in Brunclough Lane, whom you've
been treating for several weeks? You've repeatedly sent medicine there
without having seen the patient."
Ezekiel looked uncomfortable. "Her mother told me she was just low
like," he said, "and all she needed was some strengthening medicine."
"But no doctor should go on giving medicine without seeing the patient."
"Well, I'm noan going to give her any more," replied Ezekiel. "I were
called in there last night 'cause Maria Ellen told me her lass was
worse."
"Oh, you went to see the girl last night, did you? And what did you
discover?"
"The lass were in a very bad way. But I can cure her all right."
From that time Judge Bolitho assumed a very severe air, and, when
presently he left the house, Ezekiel looked exceedingly anxious.
"Of course, you'll understand," said the judge, on leaving him, "that
it'll be to your interest that this interview remains a secret?"
"Ay, I see that," replied Ezekiel, with conviction.
"You'll understand also that Doctor White must be sent for at once?"
"Doctor White's no friend of mine," said Ezekiel. "He's always been
hard on those of us who were not in the regular line of things."
"I insist on Dr. White," replied the judge.
"Weel, if you insist, it shall be done. But you'll not make it hard
for me, will you?"
"I'll see what can be done," replied the judge. And then he walked
away in a very thoughtful frame of mind.
A little later he was at Dr. White's surgery.
"I want half an hour's private talk with you," he said.
"Important?"
"Very important!"
When the judge had informed the doctor of the purport of his visit the
latter looked very grave. "This cannot be decided off-hand," he said
presently. And then, leaving the room, he spoke to his dispenser.
"Daniel," he said, "I have to leave the surgery at three o'clock, and
it only wants half an hour to that time now. Are there many people
waiting?"
"Ay, a good number."
"Take down their names and send them all away. Tell them I cannot see
them until six to-night."
"Very well."
The doctor returned to Judge Bolitho again. "Now let's hear your story
from end to end," he said.
When their interview closed, Dr. White looked, if possible, grimmer
than usual, and when he visited his patients that afternoon more than
one wondered what was the matter with him. He did not seem himself at
all. Evidently his mind was much perturbed.
Judge Bolitho did not return to Paul's house until nearly five o'clock.
As he came to the door, Mary met him with eager questions on her lips,
but those questions were never asked. The ghastly look on his face
made it impossible for her to speak.
"It's all over," he said hoarsely.
"All over? What's all over?"
"The trial. I've just telephoned to Manchester."
The girl stood looking at him with horror in her eyes.
"They've found him guilty," said the judge hoarsely. "He's condemned
to be hanged!"