About half-way up the short cut, or bridle-path, was a dark, dingy
spruce-fir copse. It was separated from the roads by a high whitethorn
hedge, trailed over with brambles, the black, shining, rasp-like fruit
of which were now ripe and juicy. They were a great attraction to the
wandering schoolboy. Two lads, aged about eight or ten--great
favourites with Craig's housekeeper--were given a basket each in the
forenoon and sent off to pick the berries and to return to tea about
four o'clock.
There was a gate that entered from the path, but it was seldom, if ever,
opened, save probably by the wood-cutters.
Well, those two poor little fellows returned hours and hours before
tea-time. They were pale and scared-looking. In their terror they had
even dropped their baskets.
"Oh, the man! the man!" they cried, as soon as they entered. "The poor,
dead man!"
Although some presentiment told the aged housekeeper that this must
indeed be the dead body of her unhappy master, she summoned courage to
run herself to the police-station. An officer was soon on the fatal
spot, guided by the braver of the two little lads. With his big knife
the policeman hacked away some of the lower branches of the spruce-fir,
and thus let in the light.
It was indeed Craig, and there was little doubt that he had been foully
murdered. But while one officer took charge of the corpse, he did not
touch it, but dispatched another to telegraph to Aberdeen at once for a
detective. He arrived by the very next train, accompanied by men with a
letter. The news had spread like wildfire, and quite a crowd had by
this time gathered in the lane, but they were kept far back from the
gate lest their footsteps should deface any traces of the murder. Even
the imprint of a shoe might be invaluable in clearing up an awful
mystery like this. Mr C., the detective, and the surgeon immediately
started their investigations.
It was only too evident that Craig Nicol had been stabbed to the heart.
His clothes were one mass of gore, and hard with blood. On turning the
body over, a discovery was made that caused the detective's heart to
palpitate with joy. Here, underneath it, was found a Highlander's
_skean dhu_ (stocking dirk). The little sheath itself was found at a
distance of a few yards, and it must evidently have been dropped by the
murderer, in his haste to conceal the body.
"Ha! this is indeed a clue," said the detective. "This knife did the
deed, George. See, it is encrusted with blood."
"I think so, sir."
"And look, on the silver back of the little sheath are the letters R.G."
He took the dagger in his hand, and went back to the little crowd.
"Can anyone identify this knife?" he asked, showing it to them.
No one could.
"Can you?" said the detective, going to the rear and addressing
Shufflin' Sandie. Sandie appeared to be in deep grief.
"Must I tell?"
"You needn't now, unless you like, but you must at the inquest."
"Then, sir, I may as well say it now. The knife belongs to Mr
Grahame."
A thrill of horror went through the little crowd, and Sandy burst into
tears.
"Where does he live, this Mr Grahame?"
"He did live at Bilberry Hall, sir," blubbered Sandie; "but a few days
ago he sailed away for the Southern Seas."
"Was he poor or rich, Sandie?"
"As poor as a church mouse, sir. I've heard him tell Miss Annie Lane
so. For I was always dandlin' after them."
"Thank you; that will do in the meantime."
Craig had evidently been robbed, for the pockets were turned inside out,
and another discovery made was this: the back of the coat was covered
with dust or dried mud, so that, in all human probability, he must have
been murdered on the road, then dragged and hidden here. There was a
terrible bruise on one side of the head, so it was evident enough to the
surgeon, as well as to the detective, that the unfortunate man must
first have been stunned and afterwards stabbed. There was evidence,
too, that the killing had been done on the road; there were marks of the
gravel having been scraped away, and this same gravel, blackened with
blood, was found in the ditch.
The detective took his notes of the case, then calling his man,
proceeded to have the man laid on the litter. The body was not taken
home, but to the barn of an adjoining cottage.
Here when the coroner was summoned and arrived from Aberdeen, part of
the inquest was held. After viewing the body, the coroner and jury went
to Birnie-Boozle, and here more business was gone through.
The housekeeper was the first to be examined. She was convulsed with
grief, and could only testify as to the departure and date of departure
of her master for the distant city, with the avowed intention of drawing
money.
"That will do, my good woman; you can retire."
The next witness to be examined was Shufflin' Sandie. He was
exceedingly cool, and took a large pinch of snuff before answering a
question.
"Were not Craig Nicol and Reginald Grahame particular friends?"
"Once upon a time, sir; but he was awfully jealous was Craig, and never
brought Grahame to the Hall; but after the fight with thae devils of
poachers, Grahame was carried, wounded, to Bilberry Hall, and nursed by
Miss Annie. Not much wonder, sir, that they fell in love. I would have
done the same myself. I--"
"Now, don't be garrulous."
"Oh, devil a garrylus; I'll not say another word if ye like."
"Well, go on."
"Well, sir, they were engaged. Then one day Craig comes to the Hall,
and there was terrible angry words. Craig cursed Grahame and called him
all the ill names he could lay his tongue to."
"And did Grahame retaliate?"
"Indeed did he, sir; he didn't swear, but he said that as soon as he was
well, the _quarrel should end in blood_." (Sensation in court.) "Had
Craig any other enemy?"
"That he had--old Laird Fletcher. They met at the riverside one day,
and had a row, and fought. I saw and heard everything. Craig Nicol
told the old Laird that he would have nobody snuffling round his lady
love. Then they off-coat and fought. Man! it was fine! The Laird put
in some good ones, but the young 'un had it at last. Then he flung the
Laird into the river, and when he got out he threatened to do for poor
Craig Nicol." (Sensation.)
Sandie paused to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, and took snuff before he
could proceed.
"You think," said the coroner, "that Laird Fletcher meant to carry out
his threat?"
"I don't know. I only know this--he was in doonright devilish earnest
when he made it."
"I am here," said Laird Fletcher, "and here, too, are five witnesses to
prove that I have not been twice outside my own gate since Craig Nicol
started for Aberdeen. Once I was at the Hall, and my groom here drove
me there and back; I was too ill to walk."
The witnesses were examined on oath, and no alibi was ever more clearly
proven. Laird Fletcher was allowed to leave the court without a stain
on his character.
"I am sorry to say, gentlemen," addressing the jury, "that there appears
no way out of the difficulty, and that his poverty would alone have led
Grahame to commit the terrible deed, to say nothing of his threat that
the quarrel would end in blood. Poor Craig Nicol has been robbed, and
foully, brutally murdered, and Reginald Grahame sails almost immediately
after for the South Seas. I leave the verdict with you."
Without leaving the box, and after a few minutes of muttered
conversation, the foreman stood up.
"Have you agreed as to your verdict?"
"Unanimously, sir."
"And it is?"
"Wilful murder, sir, committed by the hands of Reginald Grahame."
"Thank you. And now you may retire."
Ill news travels apace, and despite all that Fanny and Annie's maid
could do, the terrible accusation against her lover soon reached our
poor heroine's ears.
At first she wept most bitterly, but it was not because she believed in
Reginald's guilt. No, by no means. It was because she felt sorrow for
him. He was not here to defend himself, as she was sure he could.
Perhaps love is blind, and lovers cannot see.
But true love is trusting. Annie had the utmost faith in Reginald
Grahame--a faith that all the accusations the world could make against
him could not shake, nor coroners' verdicts either.
"No, no, no," she exclaimed to her maid passionately, through her tears,
"my darling is innocent, though things look black against him. Ah! how
unfortunate that he should have gone to the city during those three
terrible days!" She was silent for a couple of minutes. "Depend upon
it, Jeannie," she added, "someone else was the murderer. And for all
his alibi, which I believe to be got up, I blame that Laird Fletcher."
"Oh, don't, dearest Annie," cried the maid, "believe me when I say I
could swear before my Maker that he is not guilty."
"I am hasty, because in sorrow," said Annie. "I may alter my mind soon.
Anyhow, he does not look the man to be guilty of so terrible a crime,
and he has been always kind and fatherly to me, since the day I ran away
from the arbour. Knowing that I am engaged, he will not be less so now.
But, oh, my love, my love! Reginald, when shall I ever see thee again?
I would die for thee, with thee; as innocent thou as the babe unborn.
Oh Reginald my love, my love!"
Her perfect confidence in her lover soon banished Annie's grief. He
would return. He might be tried, she told herself, but he would leave
the court in robes of white, so to speak, able to look any man in the
face, without spot or stain on his character. Then they would be
wedded.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A whole month flew by, during which--so terrible is justice--an
expedition was sent to San Francisco overland, with policemen, to meet
the _Wolverine_ there, and at once to capture their man.
They waited and waited a weary time. Six months flew by, nine months, a
year; still she came not, and at last she was classed among the ships
that ne'er return.
Reginald Grahame will never be seen again--so thought the 'tecs--"Till
the sea gives up the dead."