The Dew of Their Youth, Samuel Rutherford Crockett [fox in socks read aloud .txt] 📗

but little, and all tending to one startling conclusion. Suddenly, swiftly, noiselessly, within hearing of eight or nine people, in a defensible house, with arms at hand, Mr. Richard Poole, of the firm of Smart, Poole and Smart, had been done to death.
Yet he had known something, though perhaps not the full extent of his danger. We recalled his silences, his moodiness as he approached the farm--the manner in which he had at once put aside all claims, even on a market Wednesday, that he might ride and speak with a man who, if he were not a felon, was certainly no honourable acquaintance for such as Mr. Richard.
The three gentlemen looked at each other and took snuff from the Doctor's gold box.
"Very serious, sir!" said Mr. Shepstone tentatively. For indeed he had not many ideas--a fact which the others charitably put down to his being an Episcopalian. Really he wanted to find out what they thought before committing himself.
"Tempestuous Theophilus!" cried the General, who in the presence of the Doctor always swore by unknown saints--to relieve himself, as was thought--"but 'tis more serious than you think. A fellow like this alive, at large, in our parish----"
"In _my_ parish----" corrected the Doctor, who was the only man alive with a legal right to speak of Eden Valley parish as his own.
About noon the Fiscal, responsible law officer of the Crown, arrived from Kirkcudbright escorted by Tom and Eben. The evidence was all heard over again, the chamber--ex-cheese room, present parlour--again inspected, but nothing further appeared likely to be discovered, when a shadow fell across the threshold.
For some time, indeed, I had sat quaking in my corner, all cold with the fear of a flitting figure, appearing here and there, seen with the tail of the eye, and then disappearing like the black cat I see in corners when my eyes are overstrained with Greek.
Of course I thought at once of the murderer Wringham Pollixfen lurking catlike among the office-houses in the hope of striking again, perhaps at Miss Irma--perhaps, also, as I now see, at Sir Louis. But indeed I never thought of him, at least not at the time. It was not the pretended Poole, however. It was a presence as quick, as agile, but more perfectly acquainted with the hidie-holes of the farmyard--in fact, Boyd Connoway.
Long before the others I got my eyes on him, and with the joy of a boy when a visitor enters the school at the dreariest hour of lessons, I rushed after him. To my surprise he went round the angle of the barn like a shot. But I had played at that game before. I took one flying leap into the little orchard from the window of the parlour which had been given up to the Maitlands, Louis and Miss Irma. Then I glided among the trees, choosing those I knew would hide me, and leaped on Master Boyd from behind as he was craning his neck to peer round the corner in the direction of the house door.
To my utter amaze he dropped to the ground with a throttled kind of cry as if some one had smitten him unawares. Here was surely something that I did not understand.
"Boyd, Boyd," I said in his ear, for I began to grow a little concerned myself--not terrified, you know, only anxious--"Boyd, it is only Duncan--Duncan MacAlpine from the school-house."
He turned a white, bewildered face to me, cold sweats pearling it, and his jaw worked in spasms. "Oh yes," he muttered, "Agnes Anne's brother!"
Now I did not see the use of dragging Agnes Anne continually into everything. Also I was one of the boys who had gone with Boyd Connoway oftenest to the fishing in Loch-in-Breck, and he need not have been afraid of me. But I think that he was a little unsettled by fear.
He did not explain, however, only bidding me shudderingly, "not to come at him that way again!" So I promised I would not, all the more readily that I heard him muttering to himself, "I thought he had me that time--yes, sure!"
Then I knew that he too was afraid of the man who called himself Wringham Pollixfen Poole and had killed the real Mr. Richard in our old cheese-room. But I was not a bit afraid, for had I not jumped through the orchard window, and run and clapped my hand on his shoulder without a thought of the creature ever crossing my mind.
At any rate I took him in with me--that is, Boyd Connoway. I cannot say that he wanted very much to go "before them Justices," as he said. But at least he preferred it to stopping outside. I think he was frightened of my coming out again and slapping down my hand on his shoulder. Lord knows he need not have been, for I promised not to. At any rate he came, which was the main thing.
He did not enjoy the ceremony, but stood before them with his blue coat with the large rolling collar, which had been made for a bigger man, buttoned about his waist, and his rig-and-furrow stockings of green, with home-made shoes called "brogues," the secret of making which he had brought with him from a place called Killybegs in County Donegal. He was all tashed with bits of straw and moss clinging to him. His knees too were wet where he had knelt in the marsh, and there was a kind of white shaking terror about the man that impressed every one. For Boyd Connoway had ever been the gayest and most reckless fellow in the parish.
When he was asked if he knew anything about the matter he only stammered, "Thank you kindly, Doctor, and you, General, and hoping that I have the honour of seein' you in good health, and that all is well with you at home and your good ladies and the childer!"
The General, who thought that he spoke in a mood of mockery, cautioned him that they were met there on a business of life and death, and were in no mood to be trifled with. Therefore, he, Boyd Connoway, had better keep his foolery for another time!
But the Doctor, being by his profession accustomed to diagnose the moods of souls, discerned the laboured pant of one who has been breathed by a long run from mortal terror--who has, as my father would have said, "ridden a race with Black Care clinging to the crupper"--and took Boyd in hand with better results. He agreed to tell all he knew, on being promised full and certain protection.
And it was something like this that he told his story, as it proved the only direct evidence in the case, at least for many and many a day.
"Doctor dear," he began, "ye are a married man yourself, and you will not be misunderstanding me when I ask that anything I may say shall not be used against me?"
The Fiscal looked up quickly.
"I warn you that it will," he said, "if you have had any hand in this murder!"
"Murder, is it?"--(Boyd Connoway gave a short grunting laugh)--"Aye, maybe, but 'tis not the murder that has been, but the murder that will be, if my wife Bridget gets wind of this! That's why I ask that it should be kept between ourselves--so that Bridget should not know!"
"Women," said the Fiscal oracularly, "must not be allowed to interfere with the evenhanded and fearless administration of justice."
"Then I take it," said Boyd, with a twinkle of the old mirth flickering up into his white and anxious face, "that your honour is not a married man!"
"No," said the Fiscal, with a smile.
"Then, if I may make so bould, your honour knows nothing about how it is 'twixt Bridget and me. His riverence the Doctor now----"
"Tell us what you know without digressions," said the Fiscal; "no use will be made of your evidence save in pursuing and bringing to justice the criminal."
"He's gone," said Boyd Connoway solemnly, "and a good riddance to the parish!"
"Wha-a-at?" cried the three magistrates simultaneously. And the Fiscal started to his feet.
"Who has gone?" he cried, and mechanically he drew from his pocket a silver call to summon his constables from the kitchen, where my uncles and they were having as riotous a time as they dared while so many great folk sat pow-wowing in the parlour near at hand.
"Who?" repeated Boyd Connoway, "well, I don't know for certain, but perhaps this little piece of paper will put you gentlemen on the track."
And he handed over a letter, much stained with sea-water and sand. The heel of a boot had trodden upon and partly obliterated the writing, the ink having run, and the whole appearance of the document being somewhat draggle-tailed.
But there was no doubt about the address. That was clearly written in a fine flowing English hand, "To His Excellency Lalor Maitland, late Governor of the Meuse, Constable of Dinant, etc., etc. _These_"--
We all looked at each other, and the Fiscal began to doubt whether the new evidence as to the suspected murderer would prove so valuable after all.
"Your Excellency" (the letter ran), "according to the promise made to you, the lugger _Bloomendahl_, of Walchern, Captain Vandam, has been cleared of cargo and is exclusively reserved for your Excellency's use. It will be well, therefore, to dispatch your remaining business in Scotland, as it is impossible to send back the _Golden Hind_ or a vessel of similar size without causing remark. At the old place, then, a little after midnight of Thursday the 18th, a boat will be waiting for you at the eastern port or the western of Portowarren according to the wind. The tide is full about one."
"How came you by this?" the Fiscal demanded.
"Shall I tell ye in bits, sorr?" said Boyd, "or will ye have her from the beginning?"
"From the beginning," said the Fiscal, "only with as few digressions as possible."
"Sure," said Boyd innocently, "I got none o' them about me. Your honour can saarch me if ye like!"
"The Fiscal means," said the Doctor, "that you are to tell him the story as straightly and as briefly as possible."
"Straightly, aye, that I will," said Boyd, "there was never a crooked word came out of my mouth; but briefly, that's beyond any Irishman's power--least of all if he comes from County Donegal!"
"Go on!" cried the Fiscal impatiently.
"As all things do in our house, it began with Bridget," said Boyd Connoway; "ye see, sorr, she took in a man with a wound--powerful sick he was. The night after the 'dust-up' at the Big House was the time, and she nursed him and she cured him, the craitur. But, whatever the better Bridget was, all that I got for it was that I had to go to Portowarren at dead of night, and that letter flung at me like a bone to a dog, when I told him that I might be called in question for the matter of my wife."
"'Aye, put it on your wife,' says he, 'they will let you off. _You_ have not the pluck of a half-drowned flea!'
"But when I insisted that I should have wherewith to clear me and Bridget also, he cast the letter down, dibbling it into the pebbles and sand with his heel just as he was going aboard.
"'There,' he cried, 'now you can put it on me!'"
"Lalor Maitland," said the Fiscal, ruminating, with his brow knit at the letter in his hand. "Where is that maid? Bring her here!"
I sprang away at once to knock on Irma's door, and bid her come, because the great folk were wanting her. And it seemed as if she had been expecting the summons too,