You could choose for yourself. If you had a liking for cremation, here were a dozen different ways of being cremated. If you preferred the simpler form of inhumation, here were at least fifty ways of arranging the body. Here were burials in every part of the tumulus, from the principal occupant in the middle to the intruding gentleman who was only just under the surface. Well, well!—there was enough to think about…
Of course I did not immediately realise the presence of these imagines mortis. But they prevailed over everything else in the visible scene, and they served as a theme for the opening of an easy, instructive and entertaining conversation. Indeed, our interest in these relics appeared to restore the Professor to his normal cordiality.
Ellingham, I saw, was really enthusiastic. He took a set of lenses from his pocket and he studied many of these grim or mouldy things with minute attention.
For my part, I saw Reisby in a new light. Surrounded by emblems of mortality and the innumerable relics of the dead, his air was Rhadamanthine and immense; his enormous rumbling voice echoed, one might imagine, through the caverns of the underworld. Yet his geniality was evident—a real geniality, nothing macabre or frightfully exaggerated like the grin of a skull.
Extraordinary man! Even now, with all my later knowledge, I cannot understand him. So craggy in outline, so primitive by nature, yet so profoundly intellectual! He was a man huge in every inconsistency, enormous in every aspect, mysterious and overpowering.
“Not entirely without value, these researches, I hope,” he said. “A few scraps of information collected with patience.”
“My dear sir!” cried Ellingham, surprising me with his unusual vivacity, “it is more than patience—it is a marvel of brilliant method and of true observation. Forgive me, sir, if I cannot restrain my delight; I would not presume to offer praise to a man so immeasurably superior to myself in learning and attainment.”
This peculiar, stilted speech, was entirely unlike Ellingham’s ordinary manner. I could see that he was engaged in some deliberate manoeuvre, though I could not follow his design.
Reisby was evidently pleased. He displayed and explained many of his choice exhibits. I can see him now, lifting carefully one of his gigantic pots, a pot containing, so he told us, the cremated bones of a youth, an elderly woman and a child.
“Ah!” said Ellingham, looking sharply at the Professor as he spoke, “if only we could open the Devil’s Hump! I was making a survey of it the other morning—a very casual survey, of course.”
Reisby frowned, and I thought he deposited the urn on the table with inexplicable violence. I could hear the bones rattle inside.
“You had better leave it alone, my dear Ellingham, I can assure you. It’s rather a sore point with me, I fear. The people, as you know, have invested it with a kind of sanctity, and old Macwardle (who is desperately anxious to be popular) takes the same ridiculous view. I have approached him on the subject, and I have even investigated surreptitiously the nature of the mound, but I doubt if we can ever open it, so long as Macwardle is alive or is the owner of the ground—which is much the same thing, I suppose.”
He was angry, for some reason or other, and he spoke with a feeling of real grievance.
“What a pity!” said Ellingham. “And there has evidently been a recent displacement—”
“Displacement?”
“Yes, sir,—one of the covering-stones.”
“Mr. Ellingham, I will ask you to be so good as to leave the subject—and the object—severely alone. I am responsible for what you call the disturbance or displacement, though I myself would not have described it by so formidable a word. If Macwardle, or any of these other fools, knew that I had used a spade on their precious barrow we should have a real commotion; every chance of a future dig would be destroyed, and myself treated as an outlaw. I will admit that my trifling investigation was extremely rash. But I was careful. Only your highly observant eye, Mr. Ellingham, would have seen a sign of disturbance. As it was, I located a chamber in a somewhat unlikely position. Some day, perhaps… Now let me draw your attention to this peculiar necklace of amber; it will remind you of one discovered by Greenwell.”
It seemed as if the morning would pass without a reference to Eric, but at length we sat down for a final discussion of this dreadful business.
“I do indeed blame myself,” said Reisby, “for not having been more vigilant. I knew the lad well, and loved him well, and I ought to have seen that he was unduly excited. But who could have anticipated this appalling tragedy?” He spoke in a deep rumbling diapason, resonant and emotional. In his right hand he was fingering loosely a human rib which he had picked up from the table.
“Professor Reisby,” I said, overcome once again by his magnificent, his convincing presence, “no one could possibly blame you. Not one of us has ever suggested such a thing.”
Ellingham smiled, and I felt a spasm of annoyance.
“Let me assure you, sir,” I continued, rather gratuitously, “that we understand your feelings, and those of Mrs. Reisby, and we deeply sympathise—”
My voice faded away, my assurance crumbled under the impassive gloom of the Professor and the obviously cynical amusement of Ellingham.
“I agree with my young friend,” said Ellingham, in a manner which I thought insufferably patronising, “and I desire to express my own sympathy. But I do not feel that all hope is to be abandoned. There is, for example, the possibility of a rescue—loss of memory—caprice—”
He was obviously talking at random.
Reisby put down the rib and picked up the fragment of a brain-case. He was getting tired of the conversation.
“That fellow, Joe Lloyd—” said Ellingham.
“Ho, ah?”
There was a visible darkening of the saturnine face. “Lloyd, eh? What has he to do with it?”
“Nothing, I presume. But I think he was up very early on that particular morning.”
“Up early? Who told you so? And in what way could such a fact be related to this melancholy affair?”
“I merely suggest—”
“Look here, Mr. Ellingham, I know Lloyd pretty well. He has been working for me during the past six or seven years. To the best of my belief he is an honest man. If he saw anything he would have told us.”
“Don’t you think he may have desired—people of his class often do—to avoid any sort of publicity?”
“I think you are making an unfair suggestion with regard to a very painful subject. May I ask who told you that Lloyd was about early on that particular morning, or if it is all mere conjecture?” He spoke angrily.
“No, sir; I must ask you to forgive me. We are all anxious to clear up this matter, and it is precisely because you know Lloyd that I suggest you might be able to coax a little information out of him. He may have seen—something or other, and then decided to keep his mouth shut.”
Reisby frowned again, and it seemed to me as if he filled the room with darkness.
“I cannot see the plausibility of your suspicion—”
“I do not suspect anything beyond the possible concealment of some little piece of evidence, trifling by itself, though not without value—a mere hint—”
“You give poor Lloyd the credit for extreme subtlety.”
“Pray believe me, sir, I should be sorry indeed if I was unfair. I appeal to your knowledge of the man; that is all. If you think I am unreasonable, there is nothing more to be said. And if there is anything offensive to you, sir, in my suggestion, I retract it immediately and without reserve.”
He spoke with an appearance of candour, but the cloud on Reisby’s brow was not at once dispelled.
“I appreciate your motives, Ellingham. And you, Farringdale, may be assured of my solicitude and of my continued vigilance. We have the willing co-operation of everyone in the district. However, it is most improbable… The set of the curren
t outside the five-fathom line…”
He paused, and again I could hear faintly, as on a previous occasion, the mournful booming of the bell off the Yeaverlow Bank.
3
In the afternoon Ellingham suggested that we ought to call on Macwardle. He had been extremely kind in making matters easy with the police, in suppressing undesirable publicity, and in explaining the situation to the Chief Constable. It would be a pleasant walk to Aberleven Manor, and we set out together soon after lunch.
We had the good fortune to discover the excellent Macwardle at home.
Like other wealthy men of his type, it pleased him to affect an occasional simplicity of manners. He aimed at the bonhomie, the tempered rusticity, of the landed gentleman. If he put on a suit of old clothes, preferably one lacking a few unessential buttons and with a patched elbow, he could imagine people saying (or thinking): “What a dear, simple old fellow Macwardle is!—you would never believe he had seventy thousand a year if you saw him pottering about in his garden.” Country gentlemen, he knew, often allowed themselves to be untidy, and they were fond of dabbling about with a rake or a hoe. It was quite the proper thing to do, particularly if you wanted the others to regard you as a “dear old fellow.” Ostentation was to be avoided. You had a pair of Rolls-Royce cars, to be sure; but you were not ashamed of being seen pushing a wheelbarrow. In this elaborate cultivation of a rural character—and in this alone—Macwardle showed a fumbling perception of the higher, the more artistic values of life.
As we came to the end of the long, sweeping drive we saw Macwardle pretending to trim the edge of the grass with a pair of shears. As a matter of fact, he was doing this because he expected a visit from Dean Ingleworth, and he wanted the Dean to find him at work and thus to see that he was a dear, simple old etc., etc. Our own visit was not anticipated, but he received us with cordiality.
“Ah, my dear fellows! You have taken me completely by surprise. Well, well—a surprise indeed! Please don’t look at these awful old clothes of mine. I love this kind of thing, you know. It’s really grand. Get away from all your worries and so forth. True simplicity, my boys!—the life of the people! Never so happy as when I’m just pottering about like any old gardener, I can assure you. Give me a spade or a besom and I’ll ask for nothing more. Would you care to have a look at the greenhouses before we go in? They’ve cost me the better part of five thousand, you know; but if you want a bit of glass you have to pay for it, unfortunately.”
We duly admired the greenhouses, and all the expensive and ingenious devices for keeping them watered and heated, and then Macwardle led us to the house. He became abruptly solemn.
“Come into my study for a few minutes, will you? Of course you will have tea with us. But first of all—just a word—”
After handing the shears to one of his minions, this dear simple old fellow escorted us to the remarkably ugly and excessively comfortable room which he called the study.
Now, this worthy Macwardle was true to his type in another matter, besides the crafty affectation of simplicity. He talked about his neighbours with an embarrassing lack of restraint, while continually begging you not on any account to repeat what he said. “I don’t mind telling you,” he would observe, “but of course it must go no further.” This freedom, or licence, is common in all provincial or parochial societies; but there is a difference (unknown to Macwardle) between the acrimonious and ingenious gossip of well-bred people and the alarmingly crude revelations of the vulgar.
“No, no!” he said, when I thanked him for his real kindness. “I couldn’t have done less—wish I could have done a lot more. Very shocking to all of us. Next to you and your family, of course, I feel so awfully sorry for Reisby. He was very fond of your cousin; and then, you see, all this talk—”
“What kind of talk?” said Ellingham.
“Oh, the kind of thing you always get in these little places! You can imagine—” He was obviously begging to be egged on.
“Not about poor young Foster, surely.”
“Well, no—not exactly. Eh—we are talking in confidence, I suppose?”
“By all means if you desire it.”
“I hate gossip; never talk any myself, and won’t listen to it. As a magistrate, you know, I have to be above that kind of thing. Still, in view of the circumstances, and speaking as a gentleman to gentlemen—eh?”
“I am sure that we both understand,” said Ellingham, with a shadow of a smile.
“It’s like this,” said Macwardle, leaning forward in his immense leather chair with a noble solemnity of movement. “Reisby has been fool enough to marry a young wife at a time when you’d suppose he had made up his mind to do without one. I don’t say but what he’s chosen well. Mrs. Reisby is a lovely girl—these old fellows know what’s what, eh?—and I don’t say but what she’s as good as gold. Upon my honour, I’d no more say a word against Mrs. Reisby than I would against one of my own daughters. But you understand, sir, people will talk! I don’t listen to ’em—never willingly—but I can’t help knowing what they say.” His florid countenance was animated by a restrained eagerness.
“Pray, sir, continue,” said Ellingham, taking the lead.
“Well, you see, it was unwise of her to go about with young Foster like she did last April. Quite openly—that was the worst of it. Out in the boat, or walking through the woods and all that kind of thing. People say they went bathing together—frightfully unwise!—can’t believe it, of course. Obviously no harm, you see; but frightfully unwise, eh?”
“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” said Ellingham gravely.
“Ah, my boy! It’s a long time since I was at the classics. You beat me there. All the same, you know, people did talk, and you could hardly blame ’em. Dear old Reisby never showed anything, but he must have guessed what people were saying—well, to be frank with you, I gave him a sort of hint in a friendly way. Of course he behaved like a gentleman, though I could see that he was frightfully annoyed.”
“I can quite understand what he must have felt,” said Ellingham.
“Quite. Any gentleman would understand. But that’s not all, you see. There’s a lady who lives in Northport, Lady Pamela Mulligan—she’s a—pff!—eh?—you understand me? I must be careful what I say, but—” He bent forward and addressed a chuckling rumble to Ellingham, who immediately froze up in a posture of supercilious contempt.
“Yes, really!” Macwardle was looking rather murky and flustered, and was probably thinking that he had gone too far.
“Well, this wretched woman, you see, comes down to call on Mrs. Reisby and takes her out in her car. Dear little Bertha Ugglesby-Gore was frightfully upset when she heard of it. And then, you see, there was a young doctor in Branderswick—came over to see the child—well, well! Believe me, I hate gossip as much as anyone. It hurts me to hear of such things, I can assure you. I often implore people to shut up when they are trying to tell me something or other—I do hate it so! Besides, I tell them, you must please remember that I’m a magistrate, and this kind of thing won’t do at all.”
As Ellingham had sunk into a moody silence and was looking rather disgusted, I had to fill the gap.
“You have been extremely good, Mr. Macwardle. And I feel, as you do, that Mrs. Reisby is absolutely above any reproach in the matter.”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes! Absolutely, of course!” He flipped a podgy hand in a gesture of conventional deprecation. “What I mean is, it’s frightfully hard on Reisby—these unkind rumours, and then a shocking tragedy—”
“And what are people saying now, Mr. Macwardle?” said Ellingham with a sardonic twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, my dear fellow! I simply don’t know. They are saying all sorts of things. I have no idea. I have done my best to get things hushed up, I can assure you, because we do so hate any kind of bother in this dear little place. Far better to hush things up and have done with them. Why, I said to Mr
s. Macwardle the other evening—‘My dear,’ I said, ‘it quite puts me off my dinner’—and I meant it, I can assure you.”
“Then you have not actually heard a slanderous accusation?”
“Good gracious, Mr. Ellingham! What a shocking idea! Believe me, I would not allow myself to hear anything so improper.”
“Foul play, for example?”
Mr. Macwardle flushed up in a kind of muddy purple. He did not understand Ellingham, and he was afraid of him. No doubt he felt, in some degree, the invariable hatred of the commercial for the intellectual. The springs of his chair twittered beneath his agitation.
“Sir, sir! We can’t have anything of the sort in this dear little place, I beg to assure you! Please to say nothing more about it. Everything must be hushed up. We can’t have anything of the kind in Aberleven. No, sir!”
“Murder?” said Ellingham in a hard, remorseless voice.
Macwardle sprang up as if a viper had bitten him in the rear.
“Mr. Ellingham! Let me beg you—This is too much, sir, it is indeed. You must remember, Mr. Ellingham, that I am a magistrate. I can’t listen to such talk; it is really most improper. We are all trying to lead quiet, decent lives here, let me tell you; and we don’t want to have any kind of upset. I have enough to do with fellows trying to steal my fish or my birds or cutting my timber, without all this kind of thing. Nobody would believe the amount of real hard work we magistrates have to do. Ask Ugglesby-Gore, if you don’t believe me. He is one of the most capable men on the bench. Why, my dear sir, we had to send three fellows to prison last week for poaching. It’s enough to worry a man to death, I can assure you. Oh Lord!—if only people would leave us alone and mind their own business! Trying to lead a decent, simple life, and looking after my bit of a garden—”
I thought he was going to sob. Ellingham, however, was quite unmoved, and he merely replied:
“Then why, may I ask, have you told us about these rumours?”
“Why?—eh? Well, I suppose I wanted you to sympathise with poor Reisby. Yes, I wanted you to be tactful. But I’m sure you would be tactful—and anyhow, you’re going to-morrow, aren’t you?” He seemed pleased with the idea.
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