The Talleyrand Maxim, J. S. Fletcher [books to read fiction TXT] 📗

than Nesta was certain of her

vague ideas. But he was very soon assured that there was going to be

nothing beyond brevity and formality. He had never previously been

present at an inquest—his legal mind was somewhat astonished at the way

in which things were done. It was quickly evident to him that the twelve

good men and true of the jury—most of them cottagers and labourers

living on the estate—were quite content to abide by the directions of

the coroner, a Barford solicitor, whose one idea seemed to be to get

through the proceedings as rapidly and smoothly as possible. And

Collingwood felt bound to admit that, taking the evidence as it was

brought forward, no simpler or more straightforward cause of

investigation could be adduced. It was all very simple indeed—as it

appeared there and then.

 

The butler, a solemn-faced, respectable type of the old family

serving-man, spoke as to his identification of the dead master’s body,

and gave his evidence in a few sentences. Mr. Mallathorpe, he said, had

gone out of the front door of the Grange at half-past two on Saturday

afternoon, carrying a gun, and had turned into the road leading towards

the South Shrubbery. At about Three o’clock Mr. Pratt had come running

up the drive to the house, and told him and Miss Mallathorpe that he had

just found Mr. Mallathorpe lying dead in the sunken cut between the

South and North Shrubbery. Nobody had any question to ask the butler.

Nor were any questions asked of Pratt—the one really important witness.

 

Pratt gave his evidence tersely and admirably. On Saturday morning he

had seen an advertisement in the Barford newspapers which stated that a

steward and agent was wanted for the Normandale Estate, and all

applications were to be made to Mrs. Mallathorpe. Desirous of applying

for the post, he had written out a formal letter during Saturday

morning, had obtained a testimonial from his present employers, Messrs.

Eldrick & Pascoe, and, anxious to present his application as soon as

possible, had decided to take it to Normandale Grange himself, that

afternoon. He had left Barford by the two o’clock train, which arrived

at Normandale at two-thirty-five. Knowing the district well, he had

taken the path through the plantations. Arrived at the footbridge, he

had at once noticed that part of it had fallen in. Looking into the

cutting, he had seen a man lying in the roadway beneath—motionless. He

had scrambled down the side of the cutting, discovered that the man was

Mr. Harper Mallathorpe, and that he was dead, and had immediately

hurried up the road to the house, where he had informed the last witness

and Miss Mallathorpe.

 

A quite plain story, evidently thought everybody—no questions needed.

Nor were there any questions needed in the case of the only other

witnesses—the estate carpenter who said that the footbridge was very

old, but that he had not been aware that it was in quite so bad a

condition, and who gave it as his opinion that the recent heavy rains

had had something to do with the matter; and the doctor who testified

that the victim had suffered injuries which would produce absolutely

instantaneous death. A clear case—nothing could be clearer, said the

coroner to his obedient jury, who presently returned the only

verdict—one of accidental death—which, on the evidence, was possible.

 

Collingwood heard no comments on the inquest from those who were

present. But that evening, as he sat in his parlour at the _Normandale

Arms_, the landlord, coming in on pretence of attending to the fire,

approached him with an air of mystery and jerked his thumb in the

direction of the regions which he had just quitted.

 

“You remember what we were talking of this afternoon when you come in,

sir?” he whispered. “There’s some of ‘em—regular nightly customers,

village folk, you understand—talking of the same thing now, and of this

here inquest. And if you’d like to hear a bit of what you may call local

opinion—and especially one man’s—I’ll put you where you can hear it,

without being seen. It’s worth hearing, anyway.”

 

Collingwood, curious to know what the village wiseacres had to say,

rose, and followed the landlord into a small room at the back of the

bar-parlour.

 

An open hatchment in the wall, covered by a thin curtain, allowed him to

hear every word which came from what appeared to be a full company. But

it was quickly evident that in that company there was one man who either

was, or wished to be dictator and artifex—a man of loud voice and

domineering tone, who was laying down the law to the accompaniment of

vigorous thumpings of the table at which he sat. “What I say is—and I

say it agen–I reckon nowt at all o’ crowners’ quests!” he was

affirming, as Collingwood and his guide drew near the curtained opening.

“What is a crowner’s quest, anyway? It’s nowt but formality—all form

and show—it means nowt. All them ‘at sits on t’ jury does and says just

what t’ crowner tells ‘em to say and do. They nivver ax no questions out

o’ their own mouths—they’re as dumb as sheep—that’s what yon jury wor

this mornin’—now then!”

 

“That’s James Stringer, the blacksmith,” whispered the landlord, coming

close to Collingwood’s elbow. “He thinks he knows everything!”

 

“And pray, what would you ha’ done, Mestur Stringer, if you’d been on

yon jury?” inquired a milder voice. “I suppose ye’d ha’ wanted to know a

bit more, what?” “Mestur Stringer ‘ud ha’ wanted to know a deal more,”

observed another voice. “He would do!”

 

“There’s a many things I want to know,” continued the blacksmith, with a

stout thump of the table. “They all tak’ it for granted ‘at young squire

walked on to yon bridge, an’ ‘at it theer and then fell to pieces. Who

see’d it fall to pieces? Who was theer to see what did happen?”

 

“What else did happen or could happen nor what were testified to?” asked

a new voice. “Theer wor what they call circumstantial evidence to show

how all t’ affair happened!”

 

“Circumstantial evidence be blowed!” sneered the blacksmith heartily. “I

reckon nowt o’ circumstantial evidence! Look ye here! How do you

know—how does anybody know ‘at t’ young squire worn’t thrown off that

bridge, and ‘at t’ bridge collapsed when he wor thrown? He might ha’ met

somebody on t’ bridge, and quarrelled wi’ ‘em, and whoivver it wor might

ha’ been t’ strongest man, and flung him into t’ road beneath!”

 

“Aye, but i’ that case t’ other feller—t’ assailant—‘ud ha’ fallen wi’

him,” objected somebody.

 

“Nowt o’ t’ sort!” retorted the blacksmith. “He’d be safe on t’ sound

part o’ t’ bridge—it’s only a piece on ‘t that gave way. I say that

theer idea wants inquirin’ into. An’ theer’s another thing—what wor

that lawyer-clerk chap fro’ Barford—Pratt—doin’ about theer? What

reight had he to be prowlin’ round t’ neighbourhood o’ that bridge, and

at that time? Come, now!—theer’s a tickler for somebody.”

 

“He telled that,” exclaimed several voices. “He had business i’ t’

place. He had some papers to ‘liver.”

 

“Then why didn’t he go t’ nearest way to t’ house t’ ‘liver ‘em?”

demanded Stringer. “T’ shortest way to t’ house fro’ t’ railway station

is straight up t’ carriage drive—not through them plantations. I ax

agen—what wor that feller doin’ theer? It’s important.”

 

“Why, ye don’t suspect him of owt, do yer, Mestur Stringer?” asked

somebody. “A respectable young feller like that theer—come!”

 

“I’m sayin’ nowt about suspectin’ nobody!” vociferated the blacksmith.

“I’m doin’ nowt but puttin’ a case, as t’ lawyers ‘ud term it. I say ‘at

theer’s a lot o’ things ‘at owt to ha’ comed out. I’ll tell ye one on

‘em—how is it ‘at nowt—not a single word—wor said at yon inquest

about Mrs. Mallathorpe and t’ affair? Not one word!”

 

A sudden silence fell on the company, and the landlord tapped

Collingwood’s arm and took the liberty of winking at him.

 

“Why,” inquired somebody, at last, “what about Mrs. Mallathorpe and t’

affair? What had she to do wi’ t’ affair?”

 

The blacksmith’s voice became judicial in its solemnity.

 

“Ye listen to me!” he said with emphasis. “I know what I’m talking

about. Ye know what came out at t’ inquest. When this here Pratt ran to

tell t’ news at t’ house he returned to what they term t’ fatal spot i’

company wi’ t’ butler, and a couple of footmen, and Dan Scholes, one o’

t’ grooms. Now theer worn’t a word said at t’ inquest about what that

lot—five on em, mind yer—found when they reached t’ dead corpse—not

one word! But I know—Dan Scholes tell’d me!”

 

“What did they find, then, Mestur Stringer?” asked an eager member of

the assemblage. “What wor it?”

 

The blacksmith’s voice sank to a mysterious whisper.

 

“I’ll tell yer!” he replied. “They found Mrs. Mallathorpe, lyin’ i’ a

dead faint—close by! And they say ‘at she’s nivver done nowt but go out

o’ one faint into another, ivver since. So, of course, she’s nivver been

able to tell if she saw owt or knew owt! And what I say is,” he

concluded, with a heavy thump of the table, “that theer crowner’s quest

owt to ha’ been what they term adjourned, until Mrs. Mallathorpe could

tell if she did see owt, or if she knew owt, or heer’d owt! She mun ha’

been close by—or else they wo’dn’t ha’ found her lyin’ theer aside o’

t’ corpse. What did she see? What did she hear? Does she know owt? I

tell ye ‘at theer’s questions ‘at wants answerin’—and theer’s trouble

ahead for somebody if they aren’t answered—now then!”

 

Collingwood went away from his retreat, beckoning the landlord to

follow. In the parlour he turned to him.

 

“Have you heard anything of what Stringer said just now?” he asked. “I

mean—about Mrs. Mallathorpe?”

 

“Heard just the same—and from the same chap, Scholes, the groom, sir,”

replied the landlord. “Oh, yes! Of course, people will wonder why they

didn’t get some evidence from Mrs. Mallathorpe—just as Stringer says.”

 

Collingwood sat a long time that night, thinking over the things he had

heard. He came to the conclusion that the domineering blacksmith was

right in one of his dogmatic assertions—there was trouble ahead. And

next morning, before going up to the Grange, he went to the nearest

telegraph office, and sent Sir John Standridge a lengthy message in

which he resigned the appointment that would have taken him to India.