OUT OF THE PAST
When Tom entered the newspaper office after attending to the freight
matter as well as several errands, he saw Brent sitting on a stool
before a high table with a great bound volume of newspapers before him.
His lanky legs were drawn up, his feet resting on a high rung of the
stool, a pencil was over his ear, and his prosaic spectacles and
studious air were so at odds with the adventurous role he had given
himself that even sober Tom was fain to smile.
“Shhh,” said Brent, never looking up. “I have it; it was hiding in a
Sunday edition. I crept stealthily through the Saturday issue and—”
“No fooling,” said Tom expectantly; “have you really found it?”
He stood at Brent’s side gazing at a heading which seemed to visualize
to him the event which old Dyker had recalled in his rambling talk. The
hazy reminiscence seemed brutally clear and definite now with this cold
announcement before him. And as he read, not only the event was
confirmed but the guilt fixed as well.
CRAZED YOUTH KILLS BENEFACTOR, the glaring heading read.
Tom glanced at the top of the yellowed sheet and saw that the issue was
of a date fourteen years back. The thing had occurred before Temple Camp
was dreamed of and when he was a hoodlum in Barrel Alley.
“Satisfactory?” said Brent in his funny way. Tom did not answer; he was
too engrossed in reading.
“Henry Merrick,” the article ran, “was found murdered in his home
yesterday. He had been struck with some blunt instrument while in his
library and was lying partly under his writing table quite dead when the
body was discovered by his aged housekeeper, Miss Martha Wildick, on
returning at seven o’clock from a church meeting.
“All indications point to the guilt of one Anson Dyker, a youth of
seventeen years who is known to have called at the house between five
and five-thirty and who shortly before six o’clock was seen to emerge
from a kitchen window and hurry through the thick shrubbery in back of
the Merrick home.
“It is known that between five and seven o’clock Mr. Merrick was alone
in the house save for the presence of this youth. It is probable that
the crime was committed with one or other of several ornate fireplace
instruments, for these, a shovel and pair of tongs and poker, were found
strewn upon the floor. An overturned chair was the only other indication
of a struggle.
“The motive which incited the maddened boy to murder was undoubtedly
revenge though he also availed himself of the opportunity for robbery,
for a metal strong-box believed by Miss Wildick to have contained
several bonds and various notes and securities, and not improbably more
than a thousand dollars in cash, was missing. No trace has been found of
the boy.”
Tom could hardly read fast enough, “Young Dyker,” the report continued,
“was with his grandparents an occupant of a small cottage in West Hurley
owned by Mr. Merrick. Investigation reveals that the Dykers have
cherished an unreasoning hatred of their landlord from the time he was
compelled to notify them that the cottage, an old and humble abode, was
to be torn down because of the flooding of the area to make the Ashokan
Reservoir.
“When seen this morning, Caleb Dyker, the grandfather, while protesting
his grandson’s innocence, declared that Merrick was a scoundrel and had
received his just deserts at the hands of his murderer. Caleb admits
sending Anson to Kingston yesterday with over two hundred dollars back
rental to pay Merrick. This he drew out of the bank resolved to be under
no further obligation to the man who was to ‘turn him out’ as he phrased
it, from his home of thirty years.”
There was considerably more to this sensational report concerning mainly
the suspected whereabouts of the fugitive boy, of whom there was no
trace. Articles in issues of the paper immediately following rounded out
the story in the original report and Tom read these with breathless
interest to a point where the crime was relegated to an inside page and
the reports of progress in the matter (or lack of progress) were brief
and perfunctory.
From all these diminishing accounts he learned that the Dykers,
notwithstanding that they had been in many ways the subjects of their
wealthy landlord’s forbearance and benevolence for years, had been
seized with a blind wrath against him when he was forced by the
government to dispose of his property in the little doomed village.
Evidently the Dykers had not perceived his innocence and helplessness in
this matter. Simple and ignorant, they had seen him only as they had
seen the whole great engineering project; he and it were ruthless
destroyers.
There was much in the old newspapers to this purpose. The blind hatred
of the Dykers was like the senseless wrath underlying a southern feud.
They could see only one fact, and that fact, tragic indeed, obscured
every other consideration. They were to be driven from their home.
The boy, susceptible and loyal, imbibed this hatred. Neighbors heard him
say that he would like to kill the scoundrel Merrick. It was but a week
or two prior to their necessary eviction that old Caleb in a burst of
hatred and scornful independence drew out of his small savings the money
with which to square his account with his detested landlord.
With this money young Anson had been sent to Kingston. Before starting
he had been heard to say, “_If he starts talking to me and stringing me
with a lot of lies, I’ll kill him._”
That was the sum and substance of the known facts about the horrid
crime, tragic sequel of misplaced hatred and vengeance; an instance of
that blind, irrational malice so often persisting in the country.
It was easy for Tom to piece out the sad story of ignorant rebellion
against the inevitable by these lowly people, of rash and fiery youth,
of the grandmother’s broken heart and death, of the grandfather,
homeless and lonely, wandering forth into a strange world. Tom pictured
him very vividly with his stick and his old crooked spectacles.
And the vast Ashokan Reservoir, subject of his valiant loathing, had
crept over its allotted area and finally filled the green valley and
covered up the scene of the deserted village and the forsaken,
devastated home.
Tom was recalled from his momentary reverie by Brent’s drawling,
matter-of-fact tone. “I’m a better Sherlock Nobody Holmes than you
thought I was. Look here. I’ve discovered everything but the
married-and-lived-happily-thereafter part. Here’s a copy of the paper
published only last week. Read that—down there—second column.”
In a paper which Brent pulled from his pocket and laid open on the big,
dusty volume with its ancient news, Tom read with fresh interest the
following item. It was prefixed by an inconspicuous heading which read,
MERRICK OFFER IS PERPETUATED. The brief article ran:
“The death in Albany on Friday last of Horace E. Merrick, well known
merchant of the capital city, recalls the tragic murder of his brother,
Henry Merrick, in this city more than a decade ago. Henry Merrick, a
kind-hearted and generous man, was brutally murdered in his home and all
signs pointed to the guilt of a youth whose aged grandparents occupied a
cottage owned by Merrick in the old village of West Hurley. The cottage
was one of the many buildings necessarily demolished in clearing the
area now covered by the reservoir.
“The youth, Dyker by name, was never seen or heard of after the killing.
His indictment by the Grand Jury was followed by the offer of two
thousand dollars reward for his apprehension by the murdered man’s
brother Horace.
“Horace Merrick’s will, leaving the bulk of his property to his son
Borden Merrick, provides that the offer of two thousand dollars reward
be continued throughout the lifetime of his son and heir. This
stipulation seems to have been incorporated in the instrument as a
matter of general principle and out of regard for his brother’s memory,
as there seems little likelihood of the culprit being brought to justice
at this late date.”
“Anything more I can do for you?” asked Brent in his usual manner of
quiet ridicule.
“Yes, there is,” said Tom. “Don’t say anything to Pop Dyker about our
hunting these things up. Don’t say anything to him at all.”
“I’ll be as silent as the grave,” said Brent. “What do you say we get
some lunch?”