Old Harrigan stood in the little, low doorway of his shop and watched them go. That smile of delight could now have free play. And it did; it creased his old face with a hundred new wrinkles. Once more he tasted fame; the interest of fellow-creatures. His eye followed the tall gentleman, walking beside his boy. He saw that the gentleman was talking to Tom and that Tom was looking eagerly towards the gentleman and nodding in that way he had when pleased. The lad had taken to the gentleman. That was very good. He watched the two figures until with their rounding of the corner by Maston’s they went from his sight.
Beside Anthony, Tom Harrigan jerked and scuffled and swung his arms; hut he made good progress. Anthony, watching from the corner of his eye, saw that his pace was not distressing. Every now and then he spoke, and always Tom answered eagerly, like a child who is anxious, because he is himself pleased, to give back pleasure.
They came to the village’s end and walked now between bare hedgerows. A hundred yards of this and Tom halted. He spoke for the first time save in answer. He pointed to a gate in the right-hand hedge.
‘Through there,’ he said. ‘We go through there. The quick way. Through there.’ He unlatched the gate and they were in a field of rough pasture across which a footpath wound, mounting the field’s steep slope and disappearing into the darkness of a copse which fringed the skyline with bleak, black tracery. To this Anthony pointed.
‘Bellows Wood?’ he asked.
Tom nodded violently. ‘Yes. Yes. Bellows Wood. Where Tom found the men lying. Yes.’ He swung his arms like an excited child. He hurried on.
They made good pace across the field and up its far slope. At the top the path ran along a small plateau which led to the edge of the dark trees. Tom broke into a shambling run, very little faster than his walk. But it was a gait which expressed almost furious energy. He shouted:
‘Come along! Come along! Nearly in the wood. Nearly! See where Tom found the men lying. Clever Tom!’
Anthony did not increase his pace. He said:
‘Yes. We’ll see in a minute, old chap. I can’t go as fast as you can. Is this the way everyone comes to Bellows Wood?’
Tom ceased his run. He walked again. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. All come this way from home. Some go round … round by road. But all come this way. Quick way.’
They were in amongst the first trees now. Once more Tom began his run. Anthony put out a hand and gripped an arm and halted him.
‘Steady,’ he said. ‘Steady. We’ll get there all right. You mean: some people come here right round by the road, but most people by this path?’
Tom went through his violent nodding. ‘Yes. Yes … Come and see where Tom found the men lying. Nearly there now!’
Anthony released the arm; let him run on ahead. It was very dark in this wood, and very cold. It was quiet, too. No bird sang, and there was not that subtle rustling of life unseen that most woods will give.
Round a huge oak which blocked the little track, Tom disappeared. From behind it came his voice. ‘Here! Here! Tom found the man here.’
Anthony strode on and round the tree. He found himself in a small clearing through which the path still ran. Over this clearing was a carpet of fallen and rotting leaves, with every here and there sticking up out of this carpet like distorted fingers, sharp stumps of felled trees.
Immediately behind the great oak knelt Tom. He looked up at Anthony with a curious twist of the neck and tilting of the face which for the first time gave Anthony that little involuntary pang of disgust with which the sight of idiocy affects the sane. But he went close to the kneeler and looked down at him. He said:
‘Which man, Tom? Which man lay here? Blackatter?’
‘Yes. Yes.’ The violent nodding again. ‘Yes. Man with blood on his head. He was here, lying quiet. Tom found him. Tom found him. Clever!’ His face broke into a wide, staring smile. A little white froth flecked the corners of his lips.
Anthony nodded. He picked up a twig from the ground and idly played with it. He said:
‘And where was the other man lying, Tom? Over there?’ He nodded to his left. He saw the little bank the reports described; it sloped up and away from the clearing. And at its foot was just such a stump as a man, climbing up the bank in the dark and with haste, might, if he lost his footing, fall back to strike his head upon.
Tom wriggled to his feet. He ran, nodding, to this stump. He shouted:
‘Yes. Yes. Other man lied here.’ He pointed down at the stump. ‘Tom show you. Tom show you.’ He ran back to Anthony, covering the ground in long, leaping, unsteady steps. At Anthony’s feet he flung himself down, panting. ‘First man,’ he said, ‘lie here … Like this!’ He squirmed over upon his face, twitched his arms and legs this way and that—and then was immovable. Not even, it seemed, did he breathe. Every line in that big body spoke of death. Anthony’s eyes, which had seen as much death as most men’s and more, widened for a moment, then narrowed as he bent his head to stare at the body.
It was very cold in the wood, and there was no sunlight; no sound. Anthony put out a foot and stirred the body. He said sharply:
‘That’ll do now. I’ve seen.’
The twisted thing lay in slack, lifeless abandon. Anthony stared at it. For a moment a cold doubt was born in his mind; born of man’s instinctive belief in that which he cannot understand. But he pushed this doubt from him. He said again, and now with an edge to the sharpness of his tone:
‘That will do now. Get up. I’ve seen.’
Under his eyes life flowed back into the sprawling heap. Tom wriggled, and was upon his back; squirmed and was sitting up, his knees under his chin, his arms clasped about his knees. He raised his head to look up at Anthony above him. To his cheeks and nose and forehead were sticking clots of loam and mouldered leaves. His mouth was drawn down at the corners and its lips trembled. His eyes were like the eyes of a whipped and reproachful dog. He said, his high voice trembling with tears:
‘Tom only showed. The man lied like that. Tom only showed.’
Anthony, on a sudden, dropped to sit beside him. He said quietly:
‘That’s all right, old chap. You showed me very well. Like to show me how Bronson lay? The other man.’
Tom was on his feet in a whirling rush of arms and legs. ‘Yes. Yes. Tom show you.’ He ran the few yards to the stump at the bank’s foot. Again he cast himself down. But this time he lay upon his back. His feet pointed up the bank; his head lay, lolled to one side, near the black tumulus of the stump. He was inert, but there was not about him now that look of deadness. His right hand was clenched loosely, as if it were holding some invisible thing.
Anthony rose. He walked over and stood looking down at this strange mummer. He said, after a moment:
‘That’ll do, Tom. Thank you. Sit up now.’
Tom sat. Once more he huddled his knees beneath his chin and clasped about the knees and arms. But now the face which he turned to Anthony was bright and proud. He put up a hand and brushed from his cheeks and nose and forehead those black patches. Beside him, Anthony once more himself sat down. He still played with the twig, and presently from a pocket he pulled a glittering penknife and began to whittle. He kept his eyes upon this task but out of the corner of the left saw the eyes of Tom fixed upon the little knife with a gaze of hopeless and almost lustful longing.
He went on whittling. He said, his tone as idle-seeming as his actions:
‘How was it you found them, Tom? It was late, wasn’t it? Night-time. Are you often here at night?’
Tom kept his eyes upon the knife. ‘Pretty!’ he said. ‘Tom always here at night in summer. Often always.’ He stabbed a pointing forefinger towards the wood’s dark heart. ‘Little house there,’ he said. ‘Tom sleep there. Sometimes often. In summer. They let Tom sleep there. They know Tom.’ His eyes never left the knife. He said again: ‘Pretty! Pretty!’
Anthony said: ‘Little house? What house is that, Tom? A hut, is it?’
Tom nodded. His round head rolled and je
rked on its short, thick neck. ‘Yes. Yes. Hut. Mr Appleby’s hut. But he lets Tom sleep there often always in summer sometimes.’
Anthony was carving the twig now. It was a short, gnarled, thickish twig. Under the strokes of the penknife’s blade it was taking on the shape of a dog’s head. He held up his handiwork the better to see it. He said:
‘That’s going to be a nice dog, isn’t it?’
Tom took his eyes from the penknife at last; they grew round in wonder at the penknife’s work. Once more his head was set jerking and rolling by his nod. Anthony said:
‘So you were sleeping in Mr Appleby’s hut. What waked you, Tom? Was it the gun going off?’ His tone was smooth, but not his mind. He remembered the verbatim reports of Tom’s evidence, and in that evidence there had been nothing of this hut, nor of the habits of Tom in summertime. He went on carving. He waited.
This time Tom did not nod. Tom shook his head. ‘No, not much. Tom heard gun.’ He lifted his great shoulders in a shrug. Then eagerly: ‘But Tom saw!’
Anthony’s mind was once more back with the papers in that dusty-orange binding. He said, suddenly and with a change of tone:
‘When you went into the Court and they asked you all those questions, were you frightened?’
Again the rolling head showed dissent. ‘No. Not afraid. Dadda was there. Dadda tell Tom how to say.’
‘He did,’ said Anthony to himself, ‘did he?’ But the words had no sound. He said aloud: ‘Would you show me your little hut?’
There was a scraping, heaving rustle as Tom got to his feet. He did not speak, but his nod was violent and delighted. Anthony rose. He shut the shining penknife with a snap.
‘Have you got a knife, Tom?’ he said. Beside his companion he began to walk, away from the clearing and the path, towards what seemed the densest part of the wood. Tom said:
‘Yes. Got a knife. Big, ugly knife.’ He put his hand to his side pocket and brought it away gripped about a large and battered pruning-knife.
Anthony swung the little penknife by its ring. ‘Would you like this one?’ he said.
Tom’s eyes grew round and rounder. He did not speak, but he nodded a series of nods. Anthony said:
‘I’ll give it to you. If you’re a good lad and help me. You tell me what I ask, Tom. Will you?’
Again the nodding. ‘Yes. Yes. Everything. And then Tom have the pretty knife.’ He strutted and jerked along with swinging arms and loosely-working legs.
The going was rougher now and brambled undergrowth tore at their clothes and clogged their steps. They fell into single file, Tom leading. They came through dense trees to another clearing. A hut of tarred planks was there and Tom changed his walk to a shambling run. He threw open the latched door and proudly pointed.
Anthony, stooping, went in. Tom came at his heels. It was dark in the hut, but enough light came through the small window for Anthony to see that here was nothing to be seen. He went out again and before the hut stood looking about him. He found that, through the trees, he could just see that other clearing. He turned and touched Tom upon the shoulder. He said:
‘You were in here, Tom, when you heard that bang?’
Tom shook his head. ‘No. No. Tom didn’t hear. Tom was sitting on box. Tom saw.’ His tone was apathetic. His eyes were shining; but they were fixed upon the knife in Anthony’s fingers.
Anthony put the thing into a pocket. ‘You’ll get that,’ he said, ‘when you’ve told me what I ask you.’ His tone, by contrast with that of a moment before, was stern almost to harshness.
Tom’s lower lip thrust itself out. His whole mouth quivered. Tears sprang sparkling into his eyes. He hung his head.
Anthony, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, strove for patience. He was cold in body but his mind was afire. He tried another gambit. He said:
‘Show me, Tom. The way you showed me the men were lying. Show me everything you did when you saw. Understand me?’
Tom’s sheepishness left him. He drew himself rigidly upright. He nodded his jerky, lolling nod. He did not speak, but turned and went into the blackness of the little hut, and came out bearing a topless sugar-crate. In the hut’s mouth he set this, and himself atop of it. He sat sprawlingly, as if he were tired, and leaned his back against the rough pole which was the door-jamb. His eyes were half-closed; his head began to sink towards his chest as if sleep were coming to him …
He sat on a sudden bolt upright, lifting his head sharply. He jumped to his feet with a quick, clumsy movement which sent the box crashing on to its side within the hut. He ran forward three paces, thus passing the silent, watching Anthony. He stood still, his head out-thrust, staring between the trees towards the clearing … He began to walk, rapidly, not going by the easier way they had come but straight down the avenue of vision. He stepped high through the tangled undergrowth. His arms waved and flapped.
Anthony followed. He went slower. When he came to the clearing, Tom was by the big oak and kneeling, his hands running this way and that, like clumsy moths, over an invisibility. Watching those hands, Anthony could see the body slack and limp beneath them.
Anthony stood still, Tom scrambled to his feet, looked down, looked up, looked this way and that … As he looked down at the body which was not there there was no emotion save astonishment upon that round and red and staring face, but as he looked up fear came—fear which made the lips gape wider and the eyes roll and a little trickle of saliva drool from a mouth corner. And the looks this way and that were looks which sought escape …
A deep frown carved a V between Anthony’s eyes. But he waited motionless. Tom looked up again, right up, it seemed, at the tree-tops—and then, turning, began to run. He ran as Anthony had not yet seen him run; he ran with that wild speed which terror alone will give. He ran until he reached the foot of the small bank where there stood, sticking up black and malignant, the stump by which had been found the unconscious Bronson …
And as the wild, leaping, grotesque yet compelling figure reached that stump, so Anthony saw another body which was not there. For the feet of Tom met something, which was not there, and over that something Tom fell asprawl upon his face. For a moment he lay motionless; then scrambled to his knees and swung round and once more began his fluttered pawings. And then he stood. And then he looked back, across the clearing, to the big oak and what lay beneath it. And then he stared at what was beneath his hands. He stood, once more, fearfully, craned his neck back to look right upwards, and then walked up the bank and made off through the trees and was lost to sight. But as he went he did not run. He walked, and with only his normal oddities of gait.
Anthony did not move. The frown was deeper yet between his eyes. He looked not after Tom, nor at the foot of the big oak, nor across at the stump at the bank’s foot. He looked straight ahead at the trees with eyes which did not heed them.
Tom came back. Not by the way he had gone. He came through the trees at the far end of the clearing. He trotted with a shambling, happy trot. There was a loose, expectant smile upon his face.
Anthony roused himself. Tom came near and halted and held out his hand. He was not acting now. The wood seemed not so dark, not so cheerless, not so cold.
Anthony took the little penknife from his pocket and dropped it into the outstretched palm. Tom’s fingers closed lovingly about it. Down at its glitter he gazed happily. He did not move until Anthony took his arm. He started then. Anthony said:
‘We’ll go back, Tom. Take me the other way. The road way.’ And was led then in the path of Tom’s recent disappearance. Past the stump they went, and up the little bank and through more trees, quickly thinning, and were on a rutted cart-track. The whole distance from the clearing was not more than thirty yards. And yet, in that clearing, one seemed deep in a small forest.
Anthony’s brows went up. He was surprised. And then that frown of concentration came again.
At the other side of the cart-track a hedgerow ran. Looking over it Anthony saw a road; a narrow but well-condit
ioned road probably marked upon maps as of the second class. Fifteen yards to his right there was a gate. Tom led the way to this, and over it, for it was locked with chain and padlock.
Over the gate he turned left and, Anthony beside him, began to walk down Pedlar’s Hill to Farrow. For the first quarter-mile they walked in silence. After that Anthony spoke. He said:
‘Tom, do you like birds?’ His voice was idle; but his eyes, glancing sideways to catch the first reaction to this question, were hard and bright and keen.
Tom gave his epileptic nod which was many nods, diminishing. ‘Oh, yes! Yes. Tom love the birds. They like Tom.’ He began to whistle. The cold air was filled with the song of a thrush.
For a while they talked of birds and the ways of birds, from sparrow to plover. This talk brought them to the foot of the hill and the two lone cottages which were Farrow’s only straggling. Anthony let the talk die. He spoke again as they turned the corner by Floxon’s Mill. He looked up at the three great elms by the road’s edge.
‘That’d be a tree to climb!’ he said. ‘Ever climb trees, Tom?’
Again the nodding, delighted. ‘Yes. Yes. Tom climb. Often always. See long ways. Everything small.’
Anthony was busy with his pipe. He halted a moment while he tapped it out against a lifted heel. He said, more idly yet:
‘Many men climb trees here?’
Not the nod this time. A negative shaking instead. ‘Only the boys. They climb. They take the eggs. Bad! Bad!’
The last rap of Anthony’s pipe against his heel sounded almost savage.
They walked on. Near to the little shop over whose doorway was the name of Tom’s father, the footsteps of Tom began to lag. Anthony sensed reluctance. But he was silent. He feared that time, perhaps, had been wasted. Not that he had learnt nothing. He had, definitely, learnt something. But—he smiled wryly to himself—what was it?
Tom’s steps grew slower. He liked this gentleman. A kind gentleman. He did not want to leave the gentleman. And then the gentleman, who had been walking faster than Tom liked, came to a sudden stop. And he asked Tom another question. He did not ask it lazily, he asked it quickly and sharply, rather in the way that other gentleman in the Big Place—the gentleman with the odd hair—had asked him questions. This new gentleman stopped walking and caught hold of Tom’s arm and looked straight into Tom’s eyes and said:
The Noose Page 7
