John Mellish took his wife's hand in his own, and grasped it with a convulsive pressure that almost crushed the delicate fingers.
"Stay here, my dear, till I come back to you," he said. "Now, Lofthouse."
Mr. Lofthouse followed his friend into the hall, where Colonel Maddison had been making the best use of his time by questioning the merchant-captain.
"Come, gentlemen," said John, leading the way to the dining-room; "come, colonel, and you too, Lofthouse; and you, sir," he added, to the sailor, "step this way."
The débris of the dessert still covered the table, but the men did not advance far into the room. John stood aside as the others went in, and, entering the last, closed the door behind him, and stood with his back against it.
"Now," he said, turning sharply upon Samuel Prodder, "what is this business?"
"I'm afraid it's sooicide—or—or murder," answered the sailor, gravely. "I've told this good gentleman all about it."
This good gentleman was Colonel Maddison, who seemed delighted to plunge into the conversation.
"Yes, my dear Mellish," he said, eagerly, "our friend, who describes himself as a sailor, and who had come down to see Mrs. Mellish, whose mother he knew when he was a boy, has told me all about this shocking affair. Of course the body must be removed immediately, and the sooner your servants go out with lanterns for that purpose the better. Decision, my dear Mellish, decision and prompt action are indispensable in these sad catastrophes."
"The body removed!" repeated John Mellish; "the man is dead, then?"
"Quite dead," answered the sailor; "he was dead when I found him, though it was n't above seven minutes after the shot was fired. I left a man with him—a young man as drove me from Doncaster—and a dog—some big dog that watched beside him, howling awful, and would n't leave him."
"Did you—see—the man's face?"
"Yes."
"You are a stranger here," said John Mellish; "it is useless, therefore, to ask you if you know who the man is."
"No, sir," answered the sailor, "I did n't know him; but the young man from the Reindeer—"
"He recognized him?"
"Yes; he said he'd seen the man in Doncaster only the night before; and that he was your—trainer, I think he called him."
"Yes, yes."
"A lame chap."
"Come, gentlemen," said John, turning to his friends, "what are we to do?"
"Send the servants into the wood," replied Colonel Maddison, "and have the body carried—"
"Not here," cried John Mellish, interrupting him, "not here; it would kill my wife."
"Where did the man live?" asked the colonel.
"In the north lodge. A cottage against the northern gates, which are never used now."
"Then let the body be taken there," answered the Indian soldier; "let one of your people run for the parish constable; and you'd better send for the nearest surgeon immediately, though, from what our friend here says, a hundred of 'em could n't do any good. It's an awful business. Some poaching fray, I suppose."
"Yes, yes," answered John, quickly, "no doubt."
"Was the man disliked in the neighborhood?" asked Colonel Maddison; "had he made himself in any manner obnoxious?"
"I should scarcely think it likely. He had only been with me about a week."
The servants, who had dispersed at John's command, had not gone very far. They had lingered in corridors and lobbies, ready at a moment's notice to rush out into the hall again, and act their minor parts in the tragedy. They preferred doing anything to returning quietly to their own quarters.
They came out eagerly at Mr. Mellish's summons. He gave his orders briefly, selecting two of the men, and sending the others about their business.
"Bring a couple of lanterns," he said: "and follow us across the Park toward the pond in the wood."
Colonel Maddison, Mr. Lofthouse, Captain Prodder, and John Mellish left the house together. The moon, still slowly rising in the broad, cloudless heavens, silvered the quiet lawn, and shimmered upon the tree-tops in the distance. The three gentlemen walked at a rapid pace, led by Samuel Prodder, who kept a little way in advance, and followed by a couple of grooms, who carried darkened stable-lanterns.
As they entered the wood, they stopped involuntarily, arrested by that solemn sound which had first drawn the sailor's attention to the dreadful deed that had been done—the howling of the dog. It sounded in the distance like a low, feeble wail—a long, monotonous death-cry.
They followed that dismal indication of the spot to which they were to go. They made their way through the shadowy avenue, and emerged upon the silvery patch of turf and fern where the rotting summer-house stood in its solitary decay. The two figures—the prostrate figure on the brink of the water, and the figure of the dog with uplifted head—still remained exactly as the sailor had left them three-quarters of an hour before. The young man from the Reindeer stood aloof from these two figures, and advanced to meet the new-comers as they drew near.
Colonel Maddison took a lantern from one of the men, and ran forward to the water's edge. The dog rose as he approached, and walked slowly round the prostrate form, sniffling at it, and whining piteously. John Mellish called the animal away.
"This man was in a sitting posture when he was shot," said Colonel Maddison, decisively. "He was sitting upon this bench here."
He pointed to a dilapidated rustic seat close to the margin of the stagnant water.
"He was sitting upon this bench," repeated the colonel, "for he's fallen close against it, as you see. Unless I'm very much mistaken, he was shot from behind."
"You don't think he shot himself, then?" asked John Mellish.
"Shot himself!" cried the colonel; "not a bit of it. But we'll soon settle that. If he shot himself, the pistol must be close against him. Here, bring a loose plank from that summer-house, and lay the body upon it," added the Indian officer, speaking to the servants.
Captain Prodder and the two grooms selected the broadest plank they could find. It was moss-grown and rotten, and straggling wreaths of wild clematis were entwined about it; but it served the purpose for which it was wanted. They laid it upon the grass, and lifted the body of James Conyers on to it, with his handsome face—ghastly and horrible in the fixed agony of sudden death—turned upward to the moonlit sky. It was wonderful how mechanically and quietly they went to work, promptly and silently obeying the colonel's orders.
John Mellish and Mr. Lofthouse searched the slippery grass upon the bank, and groped among the fringe of fern, without result. There was no weapon to be found anywhere within a considerable radius of the body.
While they were searching in every direction for this missing link in the mystery of the man's death, the parish constable arrived with the servant who had been sent to summon him.
He had very little to say for himself, except that he supposed it was poachers as had done it; and that he also supposed all particklars would come out at the inquest. He was a simple rural functionary, accustomed to petty dealings with refractory tramps, contumacious poachers, and impounded cattle, and was scarcely master of the situation in any great emergency.
Mr. Prodder and the servants lifted the plank upon which the body lay, and struck into the long avenue leading northward, walking a little ahead of the three gentlemen and the constable. The young man from the Reindeer returned to look after his horse, and to drive round to the north lodge, where he was to meet Mr. Prodder. All had been done so quietly that the knowledge of the catastrophe had not passed beyond the domains of Mellish Park. In the holy summer-evening stillness James Conyers was carried back to the chamber from whose narrow window he had looked out upon the beautiful world, weary of its beauty, only a few hours before.
The purposeless life was suddenly closed. The careless wanderer's journey had come to an unthought-of end. What a melancholy record, what a meaningless and unfinished page? Nature, blindly bountiful to the children whom she has yet to know, had bestowed her richest gifts upon
this man. She had created a splendid image, and had chosen a soul at random, ignorantly enshrining it in her most perfectly-fashioned clay. Of all who read the story of this man's death in the following Sunday's newspapers, there was not one who shed a tear for him; there was not one who could say, "That man once stepped out of his way to do me a kindness; and may the Lord have mercy upon his soul!"
Shall I be sentimental, then, because he is dead, and regret that he was not spared a little longer, and allowed a day of grace in which he might repent? Had he lived for ever, I do not think he would have lived long enough to become that which it was not in his nature to be. May God, in His infinite compassion, have pity upon the souls which He has Himself created, and where He has withheld the light, may be excuse the darkness! The phrenologists who examined the head of William Palmer declared that he was so utterly deficient in moral perception, so entirely devoid of conscientious restraint, that he could not help being what he was. Heaven keep us from too much credence in that horrible fatalism! Is a man's destiny here and hereafter to depend upon bulbous projections scarcely perceptible to uneducated fingers, and good and evil propensities which can be measured by the compass or weighed in the scale?
The dismal cortége slowly made its way under the silver moonlight, the trembling leaves making a murmuring music in the faint summer air, the pale glowworm sshining here and there amid the tangled verdure. The bearers of the dead walked with a slow but steady tramp in advance of the rest. All walked in silence. What should they say? In the presence of death's awful mystery life made a pause. There was a brief interval in the hard business of existence—a hushed and solemn break in the working of life's machinery.
"There'll be an inquest," thought Mr. Prodder, "and I shall have to give evidence. I wonder what questions they'll ask me?"
He did not think this once, but perpetually, dwelling with a half-stupid persistence upon the thought of that inquisition which must most infallibly be made, and those questions that might be asked. The honest sailor's simple mind was cast astray in the utter bewilderment of this night's mysterious horror. The story of life was changed. He had come to play his humble part in some sweet domestic drama of love and confidence, and he found himself involved in a tragedy—a horrible mystery of hatred, secrecy; and murder—a dreadful maze, from whose obscurity he saw no hope of issue.
A beacon-light glimmered in the lower window of the cottage by the north gates—a feeble ray, that glittered like a gem from out a bower of honeysuckle and clematis. The little garden-gate was closed, but it only fastened with a latch.
The bearers of the body paused before entering the garden, and the constable stepped aside to speak to Mr. Mellish.
"Is there anybody lives in the cottage?" he asked.
"Yes," answered John; "the trainer employed an old hanger-on of my own—a half-witted fellow, called Hargraves."
"It's him as burns the light in there most likely, then," said the constable. "I'll go in and speak to him first. Do you wait here till I come out again," he added, turning to the men who carried the body.
The lodge-door was on the latch. The constable opened it softly and went in. A rushlight was burning upon the table, the candlestick placed in a basin of water. A bottle half filled with brandy, and a tumbler, stood near the light; but the room was empty. The constable took his shoes off, and crept up the little staircase. The upper floor of the lodge consisted of two rooms—one, sufficiently large and comfortable, looking toward the stable-gates; the other, smaller and darker, looked out upon a patch of kitchen-garden and on the fence which separated Mr. Mellish's estate from the high-road. The larger chamber was empty; but the door of the smaller was ajar; and the constable, pausing to listen at that half-open door, heard the regular breathing of a heavy sleeper.
He knocked sharply upon the panel.
"Who's there?" asked the person within, starting up from a truckle bedstead. "Is 't thou, Muster Conyers?"
"No," answered the constable. "It's me, William Dork, of Little Meslingham. Come down stairs; I want to speak to you."
"Is there aught wrong?"
"Yes."
"Poachers?"
"That's as may be," answered Mr. Dork. "Come down stairs, will you?"
Mr. Hargraves muttered something to the effect that he would make his appearance as soon as he could find sundry portions of his rather fragmentary toilet. The constable looked into the room, and watched the softy groping for his garments in the moonlight. Three minutes afterward Stephen Hargraves slowly shambled down the angular wooden stairs, which wound, in a corkscrew fashion affected by the builders of small dwellings, from the upper to the lower floor.
"Now," said Mr. Dork, planting the softy opposite to him, with the feeble rays of the rush-light upon his sickly face, "now then, I want you to answer me a question. At what time did your master leave the house?"
"At half-past seven o'clock," answered the softy, in his whispering voice; "she was stroikin' the half-hour as he went out."
He pointed to a small Dutch clock in a corner of the room. His countrymen always speak of a clock as "she."
"Oh, he went out at half-past seven o'clock, did he?" said the constable; "and you have n't seen him since, I suppose?"
"No. He told me he should be late, and I was n't to sit oop for him. He swore at me last night for sitting oop for him. But is there aught wrong?" asked the softy.
Mr. Dork did not condescend to reply to this question. He walked straight to the door, opened it, and beckoned to those who stood without in the summer moonlight, patiently waiting for his summons. "You may bring him in," he said.
They carried their ghastly burden into the pleasant rustic chamber—the chamber in which Mr. James Conyers had sat smoking and drinking a few hours before. Mr. Morton, the surgeon from Meslingham, the village nearest to the Park gates, arrived as the body was being carried in, and ordered a temporary couch of mattresses to be spread upon a couple of tables placed together, in the lower room, for the reception of the trainer's corpse.
John Mellish, Samuel Prodder, and Mr. Lofthouse remained outside of the cottage. Colonel Maddison, the servants, the constable, and the doctor were all clustered round the corpse.
"He has been dead about an hour and a quarter," said the doctor, after a brief inspection of the body. "He has been shot in the back; the bullet has not penetrated the heart, for in that case there would have been no hemorrhage. He has respired after receiving the shot; but death must have been almost instantaneous."
Before making his examination, the surgeon had assisted Mr. Dork, the constable, to draw off the coat and waistcoat of the deceased. The bosom of the waistcoat was saturated with the blood that had flowed from the parted lips of the dead man.
It was Mr. Dork's business to examine these garments, in the hope of finding some shred of evidence which might become a clew to the secret of the trainer's death. He turned out the pockets of the shooting-coat and of the waistcoat; one of these pockets contained a handful of half-pence, a couple of shillings, a fourpenny piece, and a rusty watch-key; another held a little parcel of tobacco wrapped in an old betting-list, and a broken meerschaum pipe, black and greasy with the essential oil of by-gone shag, and bird's eye. In one of the waistcoat-pockets Mr. Dork found the dead man's silver watch, with a blood-stained ribbon and a worthless gilt seal. Among all these things there was nothing calculated to throw any light upon the mystery. Colonel Maddison shrugged his shoulders as the constable emptied the paltry contents of the trainer's pockets on to a little dresser at one end of the room.
"There's nothing here that makes the business any clearer," he said; "but, to my mind, it's plain enough. The man was new here, and he brought new ways with him from his last situation. The poachers and vagabonds have been used to have it all their own way about Mellish Park, and they did n't like this poor fellow's interference. He wanted to play the tyrant, I dare say, and made himself obnoxious to some of the worst of the lot; and he's caught it hot, poor chap, that's all I've got t
o say."
Colonel Maddison, with the recollection of a refractory Punjaub strong upon him, had no very great reverence for the mysterious spark that lights the human temple. If a man made himself obnoxious to other men, other men were very likely to kill him. This was the soldier's simple theory; and, having delivered himself of his opinion respecting the trainer's death, he emerged from the cottage, and was ready to go home with John Mellish, and drink another bottle of that celebrated tawny port which had been laid in by his host's father twenty years before.
The constable stood close against a candle, that had been hastily lighted and thrust unceremoniously into a disused blacking-bottle, with the waistcoat still in his hands. He was turning the blood-stained garment inside out; for, while emptying the pockets, he had felt a thick substance that seemed like a folded paper, but the whereabouts of which he had not been able to discover. He uttered a suppressed exclamation of surprise presently, for he found the solution of this difficulty. The paper was sewn between the inner lining and the outer material of the waistcoat. He discovered this by examining the seam, a part of which was sewn with coarse stitches, and a thread of a different color to the rest. He ripped open this part of the seam, and drew out the paper, which was so much bloodstained as to be undecipherable to Mr. Dork's rather obtuse vision. "I'll say naught about it, and keep it to show to th' coroner," he thought; "I'll lay he'll make something out of it." The constable folded the document, and secured it in a leathern pocket-book, a bulky receptacle, the very aspect of which was wont to strike terror to rustic defaulters. "I'll show it to the coroner," he thought, "and if aught particklar comes out, I may get something for my trouble."
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