AT THE "MARSH INN"
The Rev. Michael Gowrie was not averse to visiting the "Marsh Inn"
again, as he was well known there, and posed as a fireside king.
Certainly Mrs. Narby had refused to receive him again, after
the desertion of Elspeth, but now that she knew Gowrie was the
father-in-law of a wealthy man, she would probably change her tune.
Moreover, the old tutor saw that it was necessary to discover the
assassin of Sir Simon, if the money was to be fingered by himself. For
if Herries did not fulfil the conditions of the will, and bring the
murderer to justice, he could not inherit the fortune, in which case
Mr. Gowrie would not reap the reward he hoped to gain, for letting
Elspeth marry the man. The golden apple which Gowrie longed to pluck
was yet beyond his reach.
Therefore he returned to the "Marsh Inn" the next day, and was sourly
welcomed by the landlady. Indeed, she still showed a disposition to
keep him out of doors, but Gowrie having five pounds in his purse,--he
had procured the same from Browne for business purposes,--flashed his
gold in her eyes, and spoke largely.
"Ye can gie me the best bedroom an' the parlour," said he, with the
air of a millionaire. "And see that the cooking be gude, and the drink
plentiful. The lean days are gane, and noo come in the fat years o'
merry-making. An aboot time, I'm theenking."
Mrs. Narby was still sore that Elspeth should have defied her, and
departed. Also she was not pleased that her former drudge should have
married a man worth fifty thousand a year. Ritson, while informing the
Press that Herries had got the money, had, for obvious reasons
suppressed the fact that he had a duty to perform before getting the
cash. Therefore Mrs. Narby was extremely jealous of Elspeth, and
nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to have scratched
her face, and pulled her hair. But Mrs. Herries was beyond the reach
of her malice, and the father of Mrs. Herries had money galore. It was
worth while to transfer that money from his pocket into hers. She
therefore smoothed her sour face, and softened her raucous voice,
which was as hoarse as the note of a starling. In her desire to
propitiate Gowrie she even curtseyed.
"I am very glad t' see you, sir," croaked Mrs. Narby, with a greedy
eye on the gold which Gowrie held in his hand, "jes like ole times,
ain't it, you an' me? An' ow's yer daughter, me dear friend?"
"Revellin' in silks an' satins an jewels of price," replied Gowrie
carelessly, "there's naethin' ower gude for the lassie."
"Ho!" yelped Mrs. Narby almost suffocated with rage, "it is a chainge,
Mr. Gowrie, ain't it? I thought she'd be a gallows widder!"
"Ye're nae paid tae theenk," retorted Gowrie with his grand air, "gae
spin, ye jade, and bring me th' flowin' bowl,--th' which Tommy Moore
sang aboot."
"Y' must pay me a'ead."
"An' hoo muckle for the bedroom an' the' parlour?"
"There ain't no parlour. Capting Kyles 'as thet, and th' bedroom es
the old gent wos a-murdered in. But y' kin 'ave the room es yer
son-in-law slep' in. Boar' an' lodgin'," added Mrs. Narby glibly, "two
quid a week, in advance."
"Hoots! Ye're demented, woman. Twa pun', says she, the deil tak her
for a greedy glede. Nae, nae, ye'll nae pairt a Scotchmon frae his
siller sae easily. I'll gie ye haulf-a-croon a nicht for ma room and
pay ma victuals as I gang."
"Capting Kyles guy me three quid," said Mrs. Narby sullenly.
"The mair fule he. Weel, tak it or e'en leave it. I'm nae verra
carein' tae stap in a butt an' a ben o' this sort. I joost cam' here
tae show ye I wisnae prood or puffed up by mae prosperity, for th'
sake o' auld lang syne, as ye micht pit it, and nae lee."
"You can stop at that price by the daiy," said Mrs. Narby, after some
reflection, "but there's a lot of fellers come 'ere to stop 'cos of
thet there murder. If I gets a better lodger, out y' goes."
This just suited Gowrie, as he knew that Mrs. Narby was bluffing. No
one would stop at the "Marsh Inn" while the season was so wet,
notwithstanding the attraction of the murder. What Captain Kyles was
doing in such a damp locality he could not think, unless indeed the
Captain was trying to hide his tracks in the affair of the murder,
always supposing that he was guilty. Gowrie was not sure of this, in
spite of Mrs. Mountford's accusation. Nor did he believe the rash
statement of Herries that Mrs. Mountford herself had committed the
crime. But if she was innocent and Kyles was not guilty, who had
killed the old man? This was what Gowrie wished to learn, and he soon
saw that he had set himself a very difficult task.
"Weel," said he, when Mrs. Narby gave her decision, "we'll close on
those terrums. I'll tack ma room by the nicht an ma board by the day.
There's haulf-a-croon in advaunce, an' dinna waste it. Where's yon
gowk o' a Pope?"
"My son's in Londing, and I'll thenk y' not t' call 'im names," said
Mrs. Narby hotly. "He's a genius, and 'ave gone to git 'is poetry
inter print, so there."
"An' wha's gain' tae publish his doggrel?"
"'Imself!" snapped the landlady sulkily.
"An' where's the siller comin' frae?"
Mrs. Narby put her arms akimbo in her favourite attitude and stormed
in her old style.
"I guve it 'im, d'y' see," she cried furiously, "y' think I carn't do
wot I likes with m' own? Me an' Narby 'ave come in for a legacy, and
we're a-goin' t' giv h'up th' inn an' go t' th' Staits, where Narby
wos reared. Pope's comin' too, arter he 'as 'is verse brought h'out.
So there, an' I don' want any of yer sauce, though yer are the
father-in-lawr of thet cove es murdered Sir Simon, es I believe he
did."
"Wumon!"
"Don't call me naimes, or I'll scretch th' h'eyes h'out o' yer 'ead;
an' there's Allus callin' in the kitching," and Mrs. Narby hurried
away, leaving Gowrie full of thought.
He obtained a glass of whisky from Alice, the miserable
maid-of-all-work, who had stepped into Elspeth's place, and sat down
on the tap-room settle to smoke and think. Outside the rain was
falling heavily, and there was the usual grey mist over the marshes.
But the room was warm, and the fire burned brightly. Mr. Gowrie
approved of the whisky, and the pipe soothed his nerves, which had
been rather upset by Mrs. Narby's sudden wrath. With his glass in his
gouty old hand, and his pipe in his mouth, he sat staring at the
driftwood fire, thinking a lot, after the fashion of the celebrated
parrot.
Two things struck him as strange. First, that Mrs. Narby should have
so suddenly lost her temper with a man whom she apparently desired to
propitiate; and second, that she--or Narby--should have so
unexpectedly inherited a legacy. If she really had money it was quite
natural that she should have let Pope go to London to publish his
poetry, for the virago adored her son, even though she did not
understand his writing. But where had Mrs. Narby got that money?
Gowrie, in his frequent visits, had learned a lot about Narby's past
life in the States; but he had never heard that the Anglo-American
expected a legacy. Indeed, Mrs. Narby, on one occasion, had said that
neither herself nor her husband were bothered with relatives. It was
queer that the money should come to them so suddenly, and from an
unknown source. Equally queer that the pair should decide to seek
America and give up the inn. Certainly the inn had been doing better
business than ever, since the murder, owing to the morbid curiosity of
visitors, so it was odd, to say the least of it, that at such a
moment, a money-making concern should be given up.
"Aye!" meditated Gowrie, sipping his drink, "I mind now. Th' auld mon
hed siller wi' him, es yon lawyer body tauld Kind. Twa thoosand. Aye!
A couple o' hundreds in gold, an' one thoosand eight hundred in notes,
Bank o' England, nae doot. Hoots! they wudnae gang wi' only twa
hundred in gold, an' they darenae cash the notes. Aye! The ways o'
transgressors are haird."
These thoughts revealed plainly that Mr. Gowrie suspected Mrs. Narby
of having killed Sir Simon, either with or without the connivance of
her husband, in order to get the money. The gold she had used to send
Pope to London, and doubtless had supplied him with a sum to publish
his verse; but the notes, owing to the warning of the numbers being
kept having been given in the newspapers, had not been presented. The
desire to go at once to the States was thus explained. Mrs. Narby, and
possibly her husband, were flying from justice. Gowrie was certain
that she had killed the old man, as he remembered the swish of a
woman's dress which he had heard in the darkness. There was a sound
about that which a keen-eared man like himself could not mistake.
"And then she knew that Herries was drugged," thought Gowrie, "and so
implicated him in the crime by placing the razor on his quilt and
smearing his sleeve with blood. Then she found the pocket-book under
the bed, where no doubt she placed it. Those who hide, find. I see now
that she is guilty--the money carried by Sir Simon was too tempting
for her. She must have hidden the notes somewhere. If I could only
find them, I would soon have her in charge."
This being Gowrie's belief, he made up his mind to stop at the inn
until he could unearth the notes, and meanwhile he kept a jealous
watch on Mrs. Narby's every action. She became aware of his scrutiny,
and--strange to say in so masculine a woman--became panic-struck. It
was with the greatest difficulty that she preserved her composure
towards him. During the afternoon, and when it was growing dark, she
broke down entirely.
"Why do you 'ave yer h'eye on me?" she inquired angrily, "I ain't got
'orns a-growin' h'out of me 'ead, 'ave I?"
"Nae, nae, but ye mind me of a sister o' mine, lang syne deid. She wos
a sweet lassie."
"Rats," retorted Mrs. Narby, going about her duties as usual, but she
bridled all the same, being open to a compliment in spite of her
resemblance to the witches in Macbeth. But after she had shown that
she knew his eye was on her, Gowrie became much more circumspect, and
several times later when Mrs. Narby looked, she found that he was not
staring in her direction. Consequently she recovered her spirits and
nerve. But Gowrie was on her trail, as she had, to his mind, given
herself entirely away.
Gowrie sat, genial and warm in the tap-room, talking to anyone who
came in, and enjoying himself thoroughly. Alice, the maid, served the
yokels with beer, and Mrs. Narby tore in and out of the room, to keep
an eye on what was doing. But for the most part she remained in the
back parts of the house, and Gowrie noticed that her dress was wet,
and her boots muddy as though she had been out in the rain. More, he
noted that the mud she left on the tap-room floor was red, and
remembered that there was earth of this peculiar hue down by the creek
which ran past the bottom of the back garden attached to the "Marsh
Inn." Wondering what could take her down there, and suspecting from
her uneasy glances that she had something to conceal, Gowrie resolved
to take the first opportunity to spy on her footsteps. But she gave
him no chance for quite a long time, and then, when the opportunity
did occur, he was momentarily withdrawn from his purpose by the
entrance of Captain Bruce Kyles, who strode bluffly into the tap-room,
looking more like a buccaneer than ever.
"Aye, Captain," said Gowrie genially, "it's you, is it?"
Kyles stared at the fiery-faced old man with narrowing eyes.
"I don't think I've met you before," he remarked. "Maybe, but there's
mair knows Tom Fool, nor Tom Fool knows, ye ken."
Kyles shrugged his shoulders and was passing on to the parlour, when
the next remark of Gowrie arrested his steps.
"Aye, ye'll be a freend o' Miss Tedder,--Maud they ca' her, like the
bonny wench in Tennyson's poem, th' which canna compare wi' Robbie
Burns."
The Captain wheeled round sharply, and brought his heels together with
a click. Plainly he was startled by this speech, and not pleased, as
was evident from the flaming glance he sent in Gowrie's direction.
"I _have_ seen you before," he said abruptly.
"Aye," said Gowrie placidly, but making a shot in the dark, "at mirk
midnicht, when the fiends o' gory bluid were abroad in this very inn
nae sae lang ago."
"What the devil do you mean? I never stopped at this inn before."
"Then where did ye see me, sir?"
"In the Court during the trial of young Herries."
"Eh, then ye were there?"
"I was,--though I don't see what it is to you."
"Weel, weel, I wis leukin' for ye, but didnae see ye."
"What did you want with me?" asked Kyles, fiercely.
"Joost tae hae a crack."
"What about?"
"Hoots, it's a lang story, and I'm gey dry."
This was an intimation that the Captain should replenish Mr. Gowrie's
empty glass, but Kyles did not take the hint. Instead of answering, he
stared gloomily at the old man, and seemed to be thinking deeply.
Presently his face cleared, and he stopped pulling his long black
moustache.
"Later on you can come to my parlour and have a talk," he said,
brightly, "just now I have to see to something before I sit down to my
dinner."
"Aye," murmured the old scamp to himself, when Kyles vanished once
more into the night. "It's a guilty conscience I'm theenking. I wunner
noo, if the mon wis in the inn, as Mistress Mountford says. She's got
a liar's eye, has yon limmer, and yet yon hint o' a meetin' at
midnicht seemed tae startle the black-avised laddie. Will ye walk
intae mae parlour, says he. Maybe I will, but ye'll nae devour me, ye
spider. Dods, but there's mair in this nor talk I'm of opeenion. Hech,
but I'll pit mae best fut foremaist, and get on the windy side o' the
man. He's nae gangin' tae get the upper hand o' Michael Gowrie,
Maister o' Arts. I'll joost bide ma time."
This he did, and while waiting for the return of the buccaneer he
partook largely of whisky, so that in an hour he was in a gloriously
talkative mood. Kyles did not return, and Gowrie fancied that the
buccaneer, conscience-stricken, had levanted. This being his belief,
he waited for another hour, and then, when it was close upon seven
o'clock, he rose and stretched himself.
"I'll joost tak a dander roond," he informed the casual guests, who
had dropped in to drink and talk.
"Aye, there's nae mair fervid admirer o' the warks of Nature nor me.
But I doot if ye puir tillers o' the soil wud unnerstan' the grand
thochts which come tae me when gazing at the glorious firmament.
There's a Wully Shakespeare spoiled in me, I doot. Aye, the drink, the
drink. Auld Nick's broth tae catch unwary mortals."
With this final speech, which was Greek to the staring countrymen, he
strolled forth by the front door into the street to look at the
glorious firmament of which he had spoken. But the same was veiled by
mists, and the night was extremely dark. No one was about the wet
roads, not even Armour, the policeman; so Gowrie had every opportunity
of doing that which he intended to do, which was to stroll down to the
Red Creek, and see, if possible, what Mrs. Narby had been doing there.
It may seem strange that Gowrie should have been so suspicious of the
landlady, for she had given him little reason to doubt her. But after
his chat with Herries, and her mention of the legacy, and her panic in
dodging his eye, he really thought that she had something to conceal.
Then again the red mud on her boots perplexed him and aroused his
curiosity. How he proposed to see anything in the dark, it was hard to
say, as he certainly could not trace the footsteps of the landlady,
when the night was so gloomy. However, he climbed over the low fence,
which parted the garden into which Herries had dropped, from the road
and walked round to the back of the house. The luck held good, for the
first thing he saw was a lantern dancing like a will-o'-the-wisp at
the lower ends of the grounds, and just where the creek was, as he
knew very well.
"It's the wumon hersel'," murmured the spy, feeling his wicked old
heart beating loudly, "and what's she digging like a ghoul for?"
He saw that she was digging, for on creeping nearer, the feeble light
of the lantern showed Mrs. Narby delving with a spade on the near
shore of the creek. So absorbed was she in her work, that she did not
hear the ponderous footsteps of Gowrie. He dropped to the earth near
the hedge, and watched, while the rain fell upon him and made him
shiver despite the whisky he had been drinking. Here he heard the
lapping of the water, and also, strange to say, a muffled beating,
some distance away in the fog, which sounded like a giant heart
throbbing. Mrs. Narby appeared to hear a noise also, for suddenly, it
would seem, she was stricken again with a panic fear, and flinging
down her spade, she hurried back to the inn, leaving the lantern on
the ground. But at the back door she hesitated; then returned hastily
and removed the light, blowing it out as she went towards the house.
Gowrie wondered at these strange and guilty proceedings.
"Aye, she's the guilty limmer wha did the deed o' darkness," said he,
heaving up his huge body from the mud. "Noo, I wonner what's she's
hiding in the bosom of the univarsal mother. It surely canna be her
ain son that she's murdered," he shivered at the thought, then
dismissed it. "Nae, nae, it's her ill-gotten gains, the notes, I'm of
opeenion. We'll hae a leuk."
The throbbing had stopped, the door of the inn was closed, and there
was no sign of anyone lurking in the darkness. Gowrie stole forward,
trying to find the place where Mrs. Narby had been digging. Suddenly
he stumbled over a pile of fresh-turned earth, and came down on his
hands. If the notes were hereabouts they would certainly be in a box,
and with this idea in his head, he groped with his hands in the hole.
For some time he was unsuccessful, and his hands became caked with
mud. Again and again he raked the earth, but could feel nothing but
the red, moist clay. The rain still continued to fall, and he was
soaked to the skin. All the same, he continued searching, breathing
heavily, and occasionally muttering to himself in words which
certainly did not invoke blessings on Mrs. Narby's head.
Unexpectedly a thin beam of electric light shot over his head, and, as
he started in terror, it was lowered, until he knelt in a stream of
radiance. It came, as he could dimly see, from a boat on the low
waters of the creek, which was moving inshore. From the deck he
certainly could be seen easily, and as he was about to rise and fly,
he heard an exclamation of surprise and a fierce oath. All at once, a
man, followed by two others, sprang from the boat, and made for the
shore. Unnerved with whisky and by this strange experience, Gowrie
rose to make for the inn, but stumbled and fell again. The next moment
he was in the grasp of strong rough hands, and in his terror--natural
enough under the circumstances--he fainted.