CAPTURE OF THE BRISTOL BADGER――MURDER WILL OUT――CHASE AFTER CHARLES
PEACE――HIS MYSTERIOUS ESCAPE.
The sudden disappearance of Charles Peace and his two companions upon
the arrival of the villagers excited surprise in the minds of all who
had assembled at the farmhouse. The police officer did not choose to
commit himself by any expression of opinion. He was not a man given to
loquacity where silence was requisite. He did not, however, attempt to
deny the assertion made by soldier Jarvis――namely, that the robbers
were not far off.
Enjoining the villagers to stay where they were and to carefully avoid
treading over more ground than was absolutely necessary, the young
soldier accompanied Mr. Ashbrook to the kitchen window, where the
entrance had been forced by removing the glass with a diamond――or
“starring the glaze,” as it is termed in the burglar’s phraseology――and
after this had been done panelling the shutter. It was this last
process that aroused Jane Ryan to a sense of danger.
Jarvis carefully examined the ground beneath the window, and pointed
to some footprints in the wet earth which led towards the straw yard.
In one place they were so plain that every nail in the soles could be
distinguished.
“They are the impressions of a strange foot――that’s certain sure,”
observed Ashbrook.
“We are on the trail of one of them,” returned Jarvis. “I dare say
they thought they could do as they liked among yokels, but we’ve got
the trail and I mean to keep it.”
The speaker walked slowly across the yard, following the tracks with
his eye as a bloodhound would have followed them with his nose.
“They’re in this barn, Master Ashbrook,” he said, stopping before one
of the doors. “No, they baint, though, they’re come out agen and gone
along the wall. But they’ve left their dead mate behind ’em. See how
different their track is now; they tramples quite close alongside of
each other, while afore they carried the body from shoulder to
shoulder, and so were forced to walk one behind and a little way
apart.”
The villagers gave a murmur of astonishment.
“Ah, he knows how many blue beans make five,” said the carter, as he
took out the peg by which the folding doors were kept dosed.
“I don’t feel quite so sure about the footsteps,” remarked the
policeman; “they don’t appear to me to tally with the others.”
“If I’m mistaken, we shall have to try back,” answered Jarvis. “Of
course, it is just possible we are on a false scent. Ah! what is
this?” The speaker pointed significantly to some drops of blood upon
the straw in front of the barn. “What say you to that?”
“Blood, without a doubt,” observed the constable.
“That’s where they laid him down when they opened the barn door.”
“Ah!――dare say――most likely.”
The villagers were open-mouthed with wonder. They, one and all, voted
the soldier a necromancer.
The doors were flung wide open, and they sprang over the rack into the
body of the barn. There had been some threshing done the day before,
and there was a vast heap of chaff just outside.
While they were gazing around, a low moan, as of one in pain, fell
upon their ears.
“Keep quiet, lads,” exclaimed Jarvis; “leave this matter to me and the
constable. Keep where you are. We can none of us tell what next will
happen.”
“Here’s footmarks on the chaff, and blood on it also,” said the
constable, who took a few steps further inside, whereupon his eyes
lighted on the prostrate figure of a man lying in the corner on a heap
of straw.
He flashed his bull’s-eye on the face of the wounded burglar, and
uttered an exclamation of surprise.
The Bristol Badger lay helpless, and bathed in blood.
Jane Ryan, who had followed the constable and Jarvis, gave a slight
scream.
“Don’t take on so, woman,” said the constable. “He’s only got his
deserts.”
Heedless of this observation, Jane went close to the wounded burglar
and peered into his face.
“Dost know who this here is? I’ll tell ye!” she exclaimed, in a voice
of concentrated rage; “he’s the murderer of my sweetheart. I should
ha’ known him out o’ ten thousand.”
There was a murmur of unmixed surprise at this observation.
“What beest thee saying, Jane?” said the farmer, scratching his head.
“Hast ever seen ’im afore?”
“Aye, sure enough I have, master. It was not for nothing that I sat up
this night. I knew summut was about to happen, but never guessed it
would turn out like this.”
Gregson endeavoured to rise to his feet, but the attempt was a futile
one; he was too weak from loss of blood.
“What has that false, wicked woman been saying?” he inquired of the
policeman.
“She accuses you of murder,” was the brief rejoinder.
“She’s mad. I never saw her before.”
“What’s to be done wi’ this man?” inquired the farmer of the
constable.
“He’s my prisoner, anyway,” answered the latter. “Best see and have
his wounds attended to, and then we will take him to the lock-up. You
charge him, I suppose?”
“Yes, with burglary.”
“Attempted burglary,” chimed in the cracksman.
“And I charge him with wilful murder!” exclaimed Jane Ryan.
Having said this, she folded her arms upon her breast and relapsed
into gloomy silence. There she stood, colossal as an Amazon, in her
sublime strength, beautiful as a Judith in her just and fearful
vengeance.
A hurdle was brought by some of the villagers, and upon this the
ill-fated Badger was placed; he was then carried into the farmhouse,
not, however, before the constable had taken the precaution to
handcuff him, for he was known to that astute officer as a ruffian of
no common order. He was, however, run to earth, having been, in a
manner of speaking, hunted down by a woman.
A doctor was sent for, who bandaged his wound, which, although severe,
was not likely to prove mortal――certainly not unless some unfavourable
symptons set in.
While all this clatter had been going on, Charles Peace had contrived
to conceal himself in a neighbouring coppice, from which he durst not
emerge while the village folk were prowling about.
When Gregson was conveyed into the house the majority of the villagers
wheeled off; at the same time Jarvis, however, was still endeavouring
[Sidenote: No. 2.] to trace out the Badger’s companions. He came too
near to the coppice where Peace was concealed to be at all pleasant to
a gentleman of his retiring habits, so Peace was fain to avail himself
of a neighbouring hedge, on the other side of which he crept along on
all fours.
[Illustration: THE “BRISTOL BADGER” SHOT BY JANE RYAN.]
Having gone some considerable distance by this means of progressive,
he imagined that he was out of sight, and betook himself to the open
field, across which he ran at the top of his speed. His movements were
however not unobserved by Jarvis.
The latter caught Mr. John Ashbrook by the leg. The farmer was mounted
on his bay mare, and said: “There goes one of them; ride down the lane
and intercept his flight, while I run across the field. We shall have
him yet.”
The farmer needed no second bidding. He rode at the hedge which
skirted the lane. With one stroke from the long corded whip, and one
cry from the rider’s lips, the gallant animal bounded over the hedge
like a flying deer.
“Wouldn’t ’a brushed a fly off the top twig,” exclaimed Ashbrook,
triumphantly. “Now, for my gentleman. Dall it, if this won’t turn an
eventful night, especially if I catch that rascal.”
While the farmer was riding down the lane, Jarvis and several others
were in hot pursuit of the fugitive.
Peace became aware, much to his discomfiture, that every movement he
made was plainly visible to his pursuers, and he deeply regretted
having taken to the open field.
He ran his hardest, and had the satisfaction of getting into the lane
before any of the pursuing party had even reached the field.
Ashbrook, as he was trotting down the lane, saw the fugitive jump
through a gap in the hedge. The farmer urged on his steed, being now
under the full impression that the capture of Peace was reduced to a
certainty.
In a brief space of time he came within a hundred yards of the enemy.
“I’ve got him now!” exclaimed the farmer. “He’s mine as sure as my
name’s Jack Ashbrook.”
But there’s an old adage “that it is as well not to reckon your
chickens before they are hatched.”
Peace was in imminent danger, but he was an astute, cunning rascal,
who was up to every feint and dodge in all cases of emergency. He,
nevertheless, was fully impressed with the fact that matters were
growing serious――much too serious to be pleasant. He turned round and
boldly faced the horseman.
Drawing a revolver from his pocket, he watched till Ashbrook came
within range of the shot, then he fired. At this time he could not
have been more than twenty paces from the horse and its rider.
A bullet was lodged in Mr. Ashbrook’s right shoulder. The wound was
not a very serious one certainly――not enough to place the farmer _hors
de combat_, but the effects of the shot proved more disastrous in
another way.
The mare, who was a high-spirited animal, became restive from the
pistol’s flash. She reared, then stumbled, and threw her rider heavily
to the ground. Peace rushed forward and struck Ashbrook two blows on
the head, which produced insensibility.
He then made for the mare’s head. Turning her sharply round, he led
her some paces from the scene of action. He patted her on the neck,
and strove as best he could to overcome the effects of the fright
caused by the flash of his weapon. The mare became comparatively quiet
and tractable.
Peace jumped on her back, and rode off at headlong speed.
While all this had been taking place in the lane the mob of persons in
the field had increased considerably in numbers; but the foremost of
them were a long way from that part of the lane where the short but
decisive struggle had taken place.
Two other horses had been brought out from the stables at Oakfield,
but some time necessarily elapsed before they could be saddled; and
when Mr. Cheadle and Mr. Jamblin mounted them for the purpose of
giving chase, Peace was so far ahead that the chances were remote of
finding him.
He knew the bye-roads of the neighbourhood perfectly well, and took
very excellent care to choose a circuitous route. As he was riding
along he listened every now and then to ascertain if there were any
sounds of horses’ hoofs to be heard, but none were as yet audible. He
felicitated himself upon this fact, arguing therefrom that his
pursuers had gone another road.
“I shall give them the double; they are on the wrong scent,” he
ejaculated, in a tone of satisfaction; “but even when the worst comes
to the worst all that will be left for me will be to make a stout
fight of it.”
He had unlimited faith in his own power, skill, and address in
confronting and overcoming difficulties; and his confidence did not
desert him on this occasion.
Presently he came to three cross roads, and was hesitating which to
take――calculating the while the chances of detection with his
accustomed coolness.
While thus engaged he descried a mounted patrol on a formidable-looking
horse, coming at a measured pace towards him.
To turn and fly was his first impulse, but upon second consideration
he thought it better to put a bold face on the matter.
The mounted policeman came forward, and regarded him with a look of
doubt and mistrust.
“Good morning, friend,” said Peace, in a cheery tone. “Better weather
than it was a few hours ago.”
“Yes,” returned the other. “Where might you be journeying to this
early hour?”
The speaker regarded him with a searching glance. This, however, did
not in any way discompose Peace, who, throughout his career, plumed
himself upon being able to throw dust in the eyes of the constabulary.
“Ah, I’m sorry to say my errand, or rather the cause of it, is one of
a painful nature. A poor gentleman is at death’s door, and I have been
sent off for the doctor. In cases of this sort minutes are precious.
Let me see, yonder’s the nearest way to Hull, isn’t it?”
“Yes, the right-hand one. But who is in such extreme danger?”
“A farmer――Mr. Ashbrook. Poor fellow, it is a chance if he recovers,
so they seem to think.”
“I know both the Mr. Ashbrooks perfectly well. Which one is it that’s
so bad; they were right enough yesterday?”
“Mr. John Ashbrook.”
“Umph! that’s strange. What’s the matter with Mr. John?”
“He was thrown――horse reared and fell upon him. His injuries are very
serious.”
“I’m sorry to hear this, but――” and here the speaker regarded Peace
with a still more searching look, “it’s his horse you are riding.”
“Yes, that’s right enough; it is.”
“Then who are you going for?”
“Dr. Gardiner.”
While this conversation was taking place, Peace had so distorted his
features that recognition was almost impossible. He was an adept at
this. By constant practice he was enabled to throw out his under jaw,
lift up his eyebrows, and so alter the expression of his features that
he defied detection. This is now pretty generally acknowledged.
“Well, I must not let anyone detain me very long in a case like this,”
he observed, carelessly. “So farewell for the present.”
The patrol made no reply. He did not, however, feel quite satisfied
that all was quite right; at the same time he did not consider it his
duty to offer any obstacle to Peace’s passage along the road, which
led directly to the town of Hull.
Peace trotted along till the patrol was lost to sight, then he pulled
the bridal rein of the mare, and turned her into a narrow lane which
ran at right angles with the road.
“That fellow suspects something,” he murmured; “and for two pins he
would have collared me there and then. The sooner I part company with
the mare the better it will be for both of us, I’m thinking.”
He dismounted, opened a gate which was at the corner of a meadow, and
led the mare into the field; then he took off the saddle and bridle,
which he threw into a ditch, gave the animal a sharp crack with his
whip, shut the gate, and left her to herself. This done, he proceeded
merrily along on foot.
Messrs. Cheadle and Jamblin had meanwhile been riding to their hearts’
content, but they did not catch the most distant glance of the man of
whom they were in search. No wonder, seeing that they had lost all
traces of the fugitive, and had been journeying in an opposite, or
very nearly in an opposite direction to the one taken by Peace. They
had, therefore, the gratification of riding many miles upon a bootless
errand.
They returned, vexed and dispirited, to Oakfield House, where they
found John Ashbrook in bed, with his sister and the village surgeon in
close attendance upon him.
The latter had extracted the bullet, and strapped up the head of the
sufferer, who was, he said, doing as well as could be expected.
Certainly there was no immediate danger.
The farmer had an unimpaired constitution, and, although sadly bruised
and knocked about, would in all probability soon get the better of his
wounds.
Peace, when he came to the end of the lane, turned into a road, where
stood a small beerhouse, of a primitive character, with a good dry
skittle-ground at the back.
He knocked several times at the side door of this establishment, but
received no answer to his repeated summonses. It was evident that all
were asleep within.
He called the landlord by name, with no better result. While thus
engaged, a man came forward from the opposite side of the road, and
said――
“Why, what’s up now, Charley? Want to get in?”
Peace turned round in some alarm, but was a little reassured upon
finding the speaker was a friend of his.
“Hang it! I’m as tired as a dog, and wanted an hour or two’s rest,”
said Peace.
“Tired! where have you been to?”
“Playing the fiddle to a party some miles away from here. They could
not accommodate me with a shake-down, so I’ve had to trudge it.”
“Come along wi’ me, my lad,” said the good-natured groom. “You shall
have an hour or two’s rest in my little crib over the stable.”
Peace gladly availed himself of his friend’s offer.
A hue and cry would be raised throughout the neighbourhood of the
attempted burglary at Oakfield House and the surrounding districts,
and Peace, young as he was at this time――he had only just turned
twenty――was fully impressed with the necessity of using caution.
No one would dream of his being in the groom’s sleeping apartment. The
latter informed him that he had to take the carriage up to London, and
that he should not return from the metropolis for several days.
“But that aint of no kind o’ consequence,” said the groom. “You can
sleep away to your heart’s content, only when you do leave mind and
lock the door. You can give the key to the stable-boy.”
“I’m sure I do not know how to sufficiently thank you, Jim,” observed
Peace in his blandest tone and manner.
There’s no call for thanks, lad. You’ve done me a good turn afore now,
and one good turn deserves another.”
Peace was conducted by his companion into the small sleeping chamber.
“There you are,” said the latter, pointing to the bed. “In less than
half an hour I shall be at the station; make yourself comfortable. We
shan’t meet again for some days, that’s quite certain, and so good-bye
for the present.”
“Good-bye, Jim, and many thanks.”
Then, as the man was about to pass out, Peace said, quietly――
“Oh, by the way, there is no occasion for you to say you have seen me,
or, indeed, I’ve been here. It’s a little private matter I’ve been
about. You understand.”
“A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse,” returned the other, with
a chuckle. “No one will know anything from me, Charlie.”
After the departure of his friend, Peace was too disturbed in his mind
to sleep. He watched from the little window of his dormitory the
carriage and pair, driven towards the railway station by his friend,
the groom.
When the vehicle was lost to sight, he walked towards the door, took
the key out of the lock, and fastened the door on the inside. In a few
minutes after this he stretched himself on the bed, and sank into a
deep sleep――the village clock had struck eleven before he awoke.
He now began to consider his course of action; he felt perfectly
secure from observation in his present quarters. No one would for a
moment imagine that he was safely ensconced in one of the apartments
of the stables adjoining a gentleman’s house.
He thought it best to watch and wait; it would not do to be too
precipitate; in the dusk of the evening he might creep out and get
clear off.
He found in the groom’s bedroom some bread and cold meat, which served
him for a meal, and he prepared himself to pass the lonely hours as
best he could. The day wore on tediously enough, but the longest day
must have an end. And when the grey mists of evening began to encircle
the objects seen before so distinctly from the window, Charles Peace
prepared to take his departure.
He disguised himself in so complete a manner as to almost defy
detection. He made himself up as a hawker. He took the precaution to
always carry a hawker’s licence, made out in a fictitious name; the
licence itself, however, was genuine enough.
He heard, as he descended the creaking stairs, the boy whistling in
the stable. Agreeably to the directions he had received, he handed the
key to the lad, at the same time dropping a shilling in his hand.
The lad stared with astonishment, which was not unmixed with alarm.
A few words from Peace soon reassured him.
“But ye’ve been ’nation quiet all the day though,” said the lad, with
a broad grin.
“People generally are quiet when they are asleep, my lad,” was the
ready rejoinder.
“Ugh! ’spose so.”
Peace did not want to have further parley. His purpose was served, and
he therefore proceeded on his journey.