MR. WILLIAM RAWTON’S CUNNING DEVICE――THE MISSING PAGE.
With all the gipsy’s faults――and it must be confessed he had a
few――want of consideration for Mrs. Bourne was not one of them.
He saw pretty clearly that a concurrence of circumstances, as unlooked
for as unpropitious, threatened to environ the doctor’s wife in a
labyrinth of difficulties. It is true that, morally speaking, no blame
could be attached to her for consenting to become the wife of a needy
and heartless physician.
She had not the faintest notion that Rawton was in the land of the
living. Indeed, she had quite forgotten in the vortex of fashionable
life that such a person ever did exist; but facts are stubborn things,
and there was no getting over the horrible one which so immediately
concerned herself.
Nothing would please Dr. Bourne better than having it in his power to
cast her adrift on the world, to be released from the tie that bound
him, and to espouse the rich and fascinating widow whom he had been
dangling after for so long a time.
He knew perfectly well that his present wife regarded him with the
greatest possible aversion, and the chances were that she would offer
no impediment to a divorce, provided he gave her only a portion of the
dowry he had received from the nobleman who was her former protector,
but Bourne’s cupidity was so great that he could not bear to part with
money. His device was to obtain a release by other means.
He had learned from a gossiping mischief-making Frenchwoman, who, at
one time had been lady’s maid to his wife when she was in India with
Sir Digby McBride, that in her early youth her ladyship, as she was
termed, had been espoused by a gipsy named Rawton. Indeed the lady’s
maid in question aided further than this, she gave the doctor a small
miniature, which she said was a correct likeness of the gipsy in
question. This the doctor treasured, and it was from this same
miniature that he traced some similarity in the features of Bill
Rawton, when he met him on the eventful night of the attempted
robbery.
Well might his wife say that he had the cunning of the fox. He had a
motive, and a strong one too, in patronising the gipsy. His motive was
to worm out of him all respecting his――the doctor’s――wife. He had
already become possessed of facts which he deemed might be of infinite
service to him in carrying out his nefarious and contemptible plans.
He had, as may be readily imagined, married the nobleman’s cast-off
mistress for the purpose of his own personal aggrandisement.
It was not a very creditable course of procedure; nevertheless it is
one which has been frequently adopted. Bourne had no very nice sense
of honour, and not much self-respect, or he never would have acted as
he had done throughout the greatest portion of his selfish life.
He now thought he saw his way out of the difficulty. He believed if he
could obtain the certificate of the marriage of the two persons named,
William Rawton and Hester Teige, his own marriage contract would be
rendered thereby null and void.
The chances were that he would have found out that he was, after all,
only deluding himself with false hopes; but he was very much charmed
with the idea, and believed in its efficacy.
Bill Rawton was under the impression that the plea would not hold
good――nevertheless, he was sorely troubled in his mind. There was no
telling; he did not understand much about the law――certainly not that
part of it which related to matrimonial and divorce suits, but he was
determined not to throw a chance away. He felt that he had already
done an incalculable amount of mischief, and was determined to repair
the evil at all hazards.
How he proposed to do this we shall presently see.
While at the common lodging-house, he met with Cooney, whom the reader
will remember as being connected with Gregson and Charles Peace in the
Oakfield House burglary described in the opening chapters of this
work.
We have had no occasion to take notice of Cooney since he was captured
by Mr. Wrench in the bar of Sanderson’s hotel. Since that time Cooney
had gone through a series of gradations in crime.
How he obtained his living when Bill Rawton lighted on him it would be
difficult to say. He did not, however, appear to be in very prosperous
circumstances, being, as of yore, very glad to turn his hand to
anything.
The gipsy came to the conclusion he was just the man for his purpose;
so he at once made a pal of him, and told him what he required him to
do.
Bill Rawton was married at a primitive village in Hampshire, called
Wratton, and to this place he forthwith proceeded in company with
Cooney.
“It’s a delicate little bit of business we are going on,” said Rawton;
“and will require a good deal of artfulness to work properly, but it
must be done, that’s certain. It is not a profitable job I admit, but
we must take the fat with the lean.”
“All right, old man,” said Cooney. “I don’t much care what it is, as
long as it’s worked to rights. Let me know what I’ve got to do, and
I’ll be on to it like a shot.”
Upon arriving at the village in question Mr. Rawton was more
communicative to his companion.
“Now, old sinner, I am going to the church.”
Cooney opened his eyes to the fullest extent.
“To the church, eh! Oh, I tumble; the plate I spose?”
“No such thing. I want to search for a register.”
Cooney nodded.
“And when I give you a signal, all I want is for you to throw a stone
at one of the windows of the church, and then take to your heels.”
“Well I’m blessed, if you aint a rum un. What! break a window. What’s
the good of that ere?”
“Never you mind, do as I tell you, and all will be as right as the
nail. I know every inch of the ground in this neighbourhood, and every
stone in Wratton church.”
“Does yer?”
“Certainly.”
“And what’s the good on it if yer do?”
“Nothing in particular as I can see; but that ain’t the question. You
play your part, and I’ll play mine. Yours is an easy one enough.”
“It aint wery difficult, if that’s all you want me to do.”
“That’s all; but here we are at the church.”
The two confederates passed through the gate, and reached the
churchyard.
“Ah, it’s the same old place――not altered in the least,” cried the
gipsy. “Just the same, but how changed to me!”
“Ah, cut that; don’t go for to be sentimental. You aint come down here
to moralise,” cried Cooney. “I say, leave that to some other bloke;
it’s out of our line.”
“Perhaps you’re right; but, you know, this place I remember when but a
bit of a boy, and I haven’t set eyes on it for many and many a year.”
“At it again,” cried Cooney, with a sort of double shuffle. “Well, I’m
blest. It’s the green trees and the dicky birds as does it for you.
Makes you feel alloverish like, just the same as ye’d be if yer were
once more on your mountain heather――like the man who ses his ’art’s in
the islands.”
Mr. Cooney, after this speech, indulged in a prolonged whistle.
“There’s no occasion for that,” observed the gipsy, reprovingly.
“We’ve come on very serious business, and must look very grave.”
“Mustn’t indulge in unseemly mirth, as our parson used to say. Werry
good, I’m all there――not, mind you, but this is quite a new line of
business to me.”
“But you are equal to anything.”
“In course I am.”
“So now keep quiet. Listen. Do you see that little window in that part
of the church which abuts out?”
“Yes, I does see it, with these ’ere blessed eyes.”
“Good. There’s nobody about just now, which is all the better, as we
must not be seen together. I have shown you the window?”
“Yes, yer have.”
“At that end of the church there is a clump of yew trees――you can
easily conceal yourself in those.”
“I’ll go at once then.”
“No, not now; all is not ready at present. Wait patiently. I am merely
explaining what you are to do, because if we don’t pull this off this
time we shan’t have another chance; so we must be careful not to make
a muddle of it. I shall have to go round to the clerk’s house I
expect, for he doesn’t seem to be here. What I want you to do is this:
go out yonder into that lane, watch, and wait there till you see me
and the clerk enter the church.”
“Yes.”
“But don’t be seen yourself if you can help it.”
“All right――drive on.”
“When you see us enter the church together, creep down from the lane
where you have been stationed, and conceal yourself in the clump of
yew trees; then keep your eye fixed on that little window.”
“Yes, and what then?”
“You will see me looking over a big book. When I draw my hand across
my forehead, thus, throw a stone at one of the end windows, and make
off as fast as your legs will carry you; but mind, Cooney, don’t
attempt to throw the stone till I have given the sign.”
“Oh, no, in course not. I aint likely to do that. And what else?”
“You are pretty sure to get clean off. Make for the station, and
remain in the waiting-room till I come. Now, you understand?”
“I hopes as how I do.”
“Now make off, and I will go and find the clerk.”
Cooney at once betook himself to the lane, and Rawton returned to the
village.
Upon arriving at the clerk’s house, he found that worthy at dinner――so
he took a stroll till the meal was over, and then called again.
He explained his business, saying he wished to get a copy of the
register of two persons who were married at the church some twenty or
two-and-twenty years back.
The clerk was a very old man, with tottering limbs and defective
sight; he had held his present office for over fifty years. He carried
with him a huge bunch of keys, and walked by the side of the gipsy
conversing in a friendly manner till they reached the church.
“You are not quite certain as to the year, you say,” he observed, as
he opened the door of the sacred edifice.
“No, not quite certain, but I can’t be very far out.”
“The names you have with you?”
“Yes, they are Jane Jenkins and Robert Bessant.”
“I dare say we shall find them. This way, if you please.”
Rawton was led by the old man into a small apartment, in which were a
number of ponderous volumes ranged on shelves.
“We had better search the volume for 1858 first.”
“As you please.”
“Have you the paper with the names?”
“Yes――here it is.”
The old clerk began to look over the book. Page after page was gone
over, but no such names could be found.
“Can I be looking over the volume for the preceding year?” said
Rawton, carelessly.
“Oh, certainly, sir, if you please. My eyesight is not so good as it
was, but my memory is good, and I think I can recollect two persons
bearing the names here written down.”
The gipsy meanwhile turned over the pages of the other volume. He soon
came to the page on which his own name and that of Hester Teige was
inscribed. He slid a piece of paper between the leaf and turned over
the others. Then he drew his hand across his forehead.
Immediately after this a loud crash was heard. The sound reverberated
through the aisles with terrible force.
“Mercy on us, what’s the matter?――some accident to the church!” cried
the gipsy, in a tone of alarm. “Pray see what it is.”
The clerk was seriously alarmed, and, upon the impulse of the moment,
rushed out into the body of the church.
This was Bill Rawton’s opportunity. With almost incredible rapidity he
drew forth his penknife, which he had kept open in his coat pocket,
passed the blade along at that side of the page which was fastened to
the book, and drew it forth; then, folding it up, he thrust it into
the breast pocket of his coat. When this had been done he went out of
the little room and anxiously inquired what was the matter.
The clerk informed him that some evil-disposed person had thrown a
stone at the church windows, one of the panes of which was broken. The
stone was picked up inside the edifice.
“The mischievous, audacious scoundrel!” exclaimed Rawton. “Shall I try
and catch him? He can’t be far off.”
“I wish you could.”
“I’ll try,” said Rawton, who at once rushed out. He brought in a
lubberly boy, who was staring, open-mouthed, at the broken glass.
“It aint me as did it, sir――indeed it aint. I never heaved a stone at
the window,” cried the lad, bursting into tears.
“Oh, it’s you, Jim Starling――eh?” said the clerk. “And if it wasn’t
you, perhaps you can tell who did it.”
“I dunno. I heard a smash, and saw the window shivered, but I did not
see him as heaved the stone.”
“Was there anyone else about besides him?” said the clerk, addressing
himself to Rawton.
“I did not see anyone else.”
“This must be inquired into. It’s a most scandalous, wicked act, and
you must do your best, Starling, to find out who it was.”
“Yes, I will, sir――I will do my best.”
“Am I to let him go?” said Rawton.
“Yes, I suppose so. Ah, yes, he is well known here. I don’t think he
would be wicked enough to do such a thing, for we consider him to be a
well-conducted lad; but as I said before, it must be inquired into. A
reward must be offered, and the police must be made acquainted with
the circumstance. Dear me, sir, young people of the present day are
not a bit like those I remember when I was young; they are audacious,
mischievous, and uncontrollable; but, as I said before, this matter
must not be allowed to drop without a searching inquiry.”
“No, certainly not. I’m a stranger to these parts,” observed Rawton,
“and certainly never expected to find such a lawless act committed
like this in open daylight. It so alarmed me that I have not as yet
recovered from the shock.”
“I dare say not, sir; I can well understand that, and indeed I am very
sorry,” replied the clerk, apologetically, “extremely sorry. Such a
thing never occurred before. I can’t make it out; but your pardon,
sir; you have not found what you want.”
“No, the interruption was so sudden and unlooked for that for the
moment I had almost forgotten my errand.”
The blubbering boy scampered off the moment he was released, and the
clerk and Rawton returned to the room.
“May I take the next volume to this?” said the gipsy.
“Yes, sir, if you please.”
Rawton turned over the leaves of the other volume and in the space of
a few minutes found the two names of which he professed to be in
search, but which, as the reader can readily imagine, he cared nothing
about. It so chanced that he remembered the persons bearing these
names being married in the year 1852, and they did very well as a
blind to his proceedings.
When he found them he professed to be very anxious to have a copy of
the entry in the book, which the clerk at once proceeded to make. The
clergyman had to sign it as a matter of form, and when this had been
done, it was handed to the gipsy, who paid the usual fee, wished the
clerk good day, and walked rapidly on towards the station.
“I’ve done my worthy friend, the doctor, now, and no mistake. Hester
can defy him. After all there was not much to fear, but I should have
been on the grizzle, and as savage as a meat hatchet if he’d got the
better of her. It was about as neat a job as I can remember doing, and
Cooney did his part to rights, just in the nick of time. Nobody will
be any the wiser, and the chances are the leaf will never be missed;
but if it is I can’t help it.”
Upon arriving at the station, he found Cooney seated in front of the
refreshment bar, devouring the remains of half a pork-pie, which he
washed down with a pint of bitter.
“Thought you’d never come,” he cried, upon catching sight of the
gipsy; “been waiting here till I was so hungry that I couldn’t hold
out any longer, so thought it best to stick up a score to you.”
“Gammon and all,” said Rawton. “They don’t give credit at these
places.”
“I aint paid for nuffin as yet.”
“Then I will,” said Rawton, who forthwith put a shilling on the
counter and called for a pint of the best Burton, paying for that and
what his friend had had at the same time.
When the two entered one of the carriages of the next London train
their tongues were unloosed, for there were no other persons besides
themselves in the compartment, and they had purposely forborne talking
about the business that had brought them down before the barmaids and
loiterers in the refreshment bar. All restraint was, however, now
thrown off.
“Well,” said Cooney, “how did you work it――all right?”
“Right as the mail. Never did anything so neatly in my life. Went out
and collared a boy for throwing the stone.”
“Oh scissors! What a spree!”
“Yes, and did the indignant to rights, I can tell you. The old clerk
took it all in like a gudgeon, and was mighty civil and obliging.”
“Oh! he’s a very decent old boy.”
“Well,” said Cooney, “this one is about the rummest start I ever knew.
Coming all these miles for the purpose of throwing a stone at the
window of a church. Why, when you come to look at it in a serious
light it seems ridiculous, don’t it?”
“Oh! as for that, in a manner of speaking, it is ridiculous; but what
of that? It has answered our purpose. You don’t want more. I suppose
we’ve done what we came to do. It’s a matter of duty――leastways as far
as I’m concerned, and as to you a trip in the country, and a sniff of
the fresh air won’t do you any harm.”
“It’s the dicky birds and the trees and the green grass as does it.
Makes you preach like a parson, and talk like a book――blowed if they
don’t; but I’m glad you’ve brought it in all right. Why, Lord bless
us, I wonder what has become of Charles Peace――haven’t set eyes on him
for years.”
“He got into a little bit of a mess at Sheffield,” observed the gipsy,
“and had to do seven years’ ‘stretch.’ Since his conviction I haven’t
seen anything of him.”
“Nor don’t know what he’s up to, I s’pose?”
“No, haven’t the slightest notion. Poor Charlie! He was always
straight and square with me. Many people run him down, but I speak of
a man as I find him.”
“Same here. He was always right enough; but Lord bless you, things
aren’t a bit like what they used to be――you can’t trust anybody
nowadays.”
“That’s true enough, Cooney――you’re right there, old man.”
“But, I say,” observed the gipsy’s companion after a pause; “what
might be yer little game at this blessed old church? You haven’t come
all the way for nuffin, that’s quite certain.”
“For nothing-why of course not, ’taint likely.”
“Well then, what’s yer lay?”
“Merely to serve a friend, that’s all.”
“Hang your artful old eyes, it’s something more than that. I ’xpect
you’ll make a jolly lot of couters out on it.”
“Nothing of the sort――I shan’t make a single quid out of it. I pledge
my word that it is a mere matter of friendship.”
“S’help my taters, I’m jolly glad to find there’s so much friendship
left in the world, but it’s hard to believe for all that.”
“You can please yourself about believing it. I have only to say again
what I’ve said is the solemn truth.”
“All right――I don’t want to pry into any man’s secrets. You’ve done
the trick cleverly, and that’s what you may call a jolly artful dodge
and no mistake, but I’m as dry as a piece of old chunk. Stand a drop
of something to drink at the next station.”
“Right you are――you shall have as much as you like.”
When the train arrived at the station the two companions repaired to
the refreshment bar, and regaled themselves with some “heavy wet.”
Upon their arrival in London, they betook themselves to their
lodging-house, and Bill Rawton presented Cooney with two sovereigns
for his services, which the latter considered a handsome recompense.
The gipsy, with all his faults, had never been a mean or selfish man,
and, certainly, in this case, he did not take the lion’s share, but he
was well pleased with the result of his visit to the village church,
and was, consequently, in the best of spirits.
He considered he had put into practice a master stroke of diplomacy,
and began to ruminate upon the best course to adopt in seeking an
interview with Mrs. Bourne.
He had no desire to see the doctor――he wished to have a tête-à-tête
with his wife.