by Howard Pyle
“No,” said Will, “it’s not.” He seemed half dazed with that which Tom was telling him, but Tom saw that he was following him, and that was all that he wanted.
“Now, here’s another point. According to this, he was within three hundred yards of the scene of the murder at the very time that the murder was being done, and yet, by his evidence, he didn’t hear a single sound. Now, Isaac Naylor called for help while I was fighting with him — and called twice, and yet Mr. Moor, though it is clear that he was so near to us, heard nothing of it.”
Will rose from his chair and began walking excitedly up and down the room. Tom watched him for a while in silence. “Have I made my meaning clear to you?” said he, at last.
“Clear? Yes — yes; of course you’ve made it clear.”
“I’ve more to say yet,” said Tom, “and when you’ll sit down and listen coolly, I’ll go on.”
Then Will sat down in his chair again without a word.
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Mr. Moor said that when he had done watering his horse, he rode on up the turnpike. The horse wasn’t drinking when I saw it. I ran on up the road, but I stopped before I got to the crest of the hill, for my breath gave out. I walked the rest of the way, which was about half a mile, to the homestead. Now, I take it, a man on horseback could have passed me, even if I’d run all the way. But Mr. Moor didn’t pass me, and there was no sign of him when I turned into the lane; so he did not ride on up the pike as he said he did. Neither did he turn back home, for no man would turn back from a pleasure ride after he had gone only three quarters of a mile. Will, how many roads are there between Stonybrook bridge and father’s house?”
“Only one.”
“And that is—”
“Penrose’s road.”
“Will,” said Tom, leaning forward, looking into the other’s eyes and speaking very slowly, “when I left Edmund Moor he rode up Penrose’s road.”
“Tom! Tom!” cried Will Gaines, springing to his feet, “this is incredible!”
“Incredible! Doesn’t it sound reasonable?”
“Yes, yes; only too reasonable!” Then he began walking up and down. Suddenly he stopped in front of Tom. “Who would have thought,” said he, “that such a quiet, dull-seeming fellow as you, Tom Granger, would have thought out all this for yourself!”
“I don’t see anything wonderful in my thinking the matter out, considering that my own life and the happiness of all belonging to me are concerned in my thinking. But, I haven’t done yet. According to my certain knowledge, Mr. Moor did not ride up the turnpike; therefore he must have turned up Penrose’s road, for there was no other. Now, if I’d killed Isaac Naylor, he’d found him lying there, even if he’d heard no sound to make him suspect anything. If he’d found Isaac Naylor alive and left him alive, one word from him would have been enough to have cleared me. He said no word, therefore he wished the blame to rest upon me; he wished the blame to rest upon me, therefore he had something that he wished to hide. Without he was concerned in the affair he would want to hide nothing. If he was concerned in it, he was concerned in it alone, for there was no one but him near enough to hear Isaac call for help; if there had been they would have come. Yesterday afternoon, when I came to Eastcaster in the stage, I saw Mr. Moor and Isaac Naylor looking out of Moor’s office window; if nothing had happened since, I don’t know that I would have thought anything of it, but, in looking back now, I tell you that there was something wrong between them; there was a look about them — the way in which they were standing, the expression of their faces, that makes me feel that I am right in what I say. When I ran out into the road after leaving Isaac Naylor, Mr. Moor’s face was as white as wax, now—” here Tom paused abruptly and began walking restlessly up and down the cell. After a while he stopped and stood in the middle of the room. He looked out of the window and not at Will when he spoke again.
“Will,” said he, solemnly, “I don’t know what has come over me; I don’t know whether it’s the state of mind that I’m in or not, but I can see the way that Isaac Naylor was killed — at least, I think I can — as clearly as though I had second sight. God forgive me if I’m wrong, but this is how I see it in my mind’s eye. I don’t know why Mr. Moor was riding along the turnpike just at that time, but I believe that it was to see and speak to Isaac Naylor again. However that may be, he was riding along the pike, and came to the end of the mill road where it opens upon the highway. There he saw Isaac talking to me and he stopped, either because what he wanted to say to Isaac was to be said in private, or because he knew me and wanted to see what would come of our talk. He saw me attack Isaac and heard him call for help, but he didn’t come to him because he’d hoped I’d kill him. That was why he was so white when I saw him a minute or two later. When he saw me leave Isaac Naylor and run up the road, he backed his horse into the water so as to make it seem as though he was just giving it a drink. I don’t believe that he would have any settled plan for doing this; it would be his instinct to do it. When he saw that Isaac was about to escape after all, he rode up to where he was sitting on the rock. Maybe they exchanged a few words; maybe he just picked up the stake and struck him where he sat, half dazed. I guess his mind must have been all in a toss and ferment at what he had seen me about to do, and the thought flashed through him, why shouldn’t he finish what he had seen me begin? I would be the one suspected, for all the circumstances would point to me, and I had come within a hair’s breadth of doing the deed myself. After he had struck Isaac and saw him lying in the grass, he realized what he had done, then he turned and mounted his horse and rode away. I think that this is so, because there was only one blow given, and Dr. Winterapple said in his evidence that he didn’t believe that it killed him right away; if Moor had coolly intended to kill Isaac, he would have made sure of it. This is my notion of what happened; of course, I may be mistaken in it.”
Tom turned as he ended, and looked at Will; the other was gazing intently at him.
At last Will spoke: “I — I follow your thoughts, Tom. It all sounds reasonable enough, but I must have time to think it over. I — I can’t believe it, somehow.”
“I don’t wonder at that,” said Tom, “beside, it’s only my own notion of it. Some one did kill Isaac Naylor, and it is clear that he was killed soon after I left him, for he never got to Elihu Penrose’s house, and he was found dead just where I left him. It only remains now to find out who it was. In my opinion, the most likely one to have done it was Mr. Moor. We must set about finding out several things, and that I depend on your doing.”
“I’ll do all that I can,” said Will.
“Very well, then; we’ll throw aside all that I’ve said, as to my notion of how it was done, and set to work, with the point given that Mr. Moor might have been the one that did the murder. The first thing to find out, is whether he had cause for the act. If there was no cause, of course, everything falls to the ground. Who is Isaac Naylor’s lawyer?”
“White & Tenny, I think.”
“Then the first thing to find, is whether Mr. Moor was tangled in some business trouble with Isaac; can you do that?”
“I don’t know; I’ll try.”
“The next thing to find out, is whether Mr. Moor really was sick yesterday morning. If he was not sick, he didn’t take a ride for his health, and must have taken it on business. If he had any business, it concerned Isaac Naylor, for he followed Isaac, and went no where else, according to my notion. The third thing to do, is to find what time he got back home yesterday afternoon, and what he did after he came home. Each one of these things hangs on the other.”
Will sat in silence for a long time. At last he stood up. “Tom,” said he, and his tones were serious, almost solemn, “as I said before, all this is reasonable, and is wonderfully thought out I won’t say off-hand that I think Mr. Moor did kill Isaac Naylor, but I’ll say this, — I think he might have done it. I’ll see what I can find out from White & Tenny — that I can
manage myself. As to Mr. Moor’s private movements, we’ll have to put some one on the track of them that’s used to hunting up evidence. When I was studying law with Mr. Fargio, in Philadelphia, he had a fellow named Daly, whom he employed in the case of Smithers vs. Black. He’s a clever hand at ferreting out this kind of evidence, and I’ll get him to run down here and see what he can make out of this. The only trouble with him, is that he drinks, but I guess I can contrive to keep him sober till we’ve found out all we want to know. And now I’ll have to leave you, Tom, for I must set about my part of the business. Though it’s hard for me to believe that Mr. Moor was concerned in this — I’ll say this, I don’t believe that you did it; you’ve convinced me that far. I’ll say, too, that your reasoning against Moor is very strong.”
“If you’ll wait a minute, Will, I’ll drop a line to Patty, and get you to take it to her,” said Tom. “Of course, you’ll keep secret all that’s been said between us. You may tell the home folks, but don’t let it go any further.”
“Of course, I won’t.”
Then, while Will walked up and down the floor of the cell, Tom sat down and wrote his letter to Patty. He represented his case very much as he had done to Will Gaines, and spoke cheerfully and hopefully of his position.
He did not tell her anything about Mr. Moor; he felt that it would be better not to do so, for her father might chance to see the letter, and it behooved them to keep the matter as quiet as possible.
Then he folded the letter and gave it to Will, who left the cell without a word, but with a firm grip of the hand at parting.
CHAPTER XIX.
IT WAS NOT until the next day at noon that Will Gaines came to see Tom again; in the meantime, Tom’s father and his brother John had visited him. They had a long talk together, and, when they left, they seemed hopeful, and even cheerful. Will Gaines had told them of the suspicion that Tom held against Mr. Moor. Tom repeated to them what he had said the day before, and it seemed to them to be almost unanswerable.
When Will came in about noon, Tom saw, at once, that he was very much excited. He flung himself down in the chair, and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“What’s the matter, Will?” said he, after waiting for a while, and seeing that there was no immediate prospect of his friend breaking the silence.
“Tom,” burst out Will, “if everything that you’ve thought out in this case is as true as that which I have just heard, I’ll acknowledge that you are a most wonderful reasoner.”
“What have you learned?”
“I’ve just seen Sheriff Mathers.”
“Well?”
“Well, to begin at the beginning, I went down to White & Tenny’s office yesterday, but didn’t find either of them in. Their clerk was there, and said that they wouldn’t be back till some time to-day. I was just going down to their office a little while ago, when I met Sheriff Mathers in front of the Crown and Angel. He stopped me and began asking me about your case; or rather about Isaac Naylor’s death. I was just on the point of leaving him, when he dropped out that it was a lucky thing for some one in this town, that Isaac died when he did. You may guess how this caught my ear, for there was a deal of meaning in the sheriff’s tone. I began inquiring about the matter, but he didn’t give me very much satisfaction; he said that this concerned another party entirely, and hadn’t anything to do with the murder.
“‘Oh! it’s about Edmund Moor, is it?’ said I, as easily as I could speak.
“‘How did you know that?’ said he; ‘What do you know about the business?’
“Well, to make a long story short, after talking to him a good while, I found that Isaac Naylor had held a judgment against Moor (for how much I don’t know), and was about to put the sheriff on him. The judgment was to be lodged in the sheriff’s hands the very day that Isaac was killed. What do you think of that, Tom?”
There was silence for some time; Tom’s heart was thumping against his ribs so that he could hardly breathe. However, he spoke as quietly as he could. “I fancied that there must be something of the kind,” said he.
Will eyed him for a moment or two, “You seem to take it monstrously cool,” said he, at last.
Tom made no answer to this speech; after a while he asked Will when he was going to send for the man Daly, of whom he had spoken the day before.
“I have sent for him,” said Will. “I wrote a note to Mr. Fargio yesterday, and urged haste in it. I shouldn’t be surprised if Daly would be here in to-morrow’s stage.”
Daly did come in the stage the next afternoon. It was about five o’clock when the turnkey brought a man to Tom’s cell whom he had never seen before. “Mr. Gaines told me to bring you this letter,” said the man, handing Tom a note as he spoke; then Tom knew that it was Daly.
“Can’t you leave us a little while?” said Tom to the turnkey.
Will’s note ran thus:
“Dear Tom:
“This is Daly of whom I spoke to you the other day. I thought better to introduce you to him thus than to come with him myself. You had better tell him everything concerning the case, just as you told me. I think you may trust him.
“W. W. Gaines.”
Tom looked at Daly as he folded Will’s note. I cannot say that he took very much fancy to the man. He was short, rather fat and bow-legged. He had a large, heavy face, with a bluish growth of beard about the lips and chin and cheeks. His head sat close upon his shoulders, and was covered with a mat of close-cropped hair. He had a sly hang-dog look, and anything but a pleasant expression. So Tom, sitting on the edge of the table where he had been reading Will’s note, looked at Daly, and Daly stood returning the look out of the corners of his eyes.
“So you’re John Daly, are you?” said Tom, at last.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Gaines says, in this note, that I may tell you everything.”
“Well, I think you’d better.”
“Sit down.”
“Thank’ee; got a spitpatoon here?”
“There’s one.”
After using the spittoon, the fellow pushed it over beside the chair with his foot. Then he sat down comfortably. “Fire away,” said he.
“In the first place,” said Tom, “I’ll show you, as I did Mr. Gaines, why, in my opinion, I couldn’t have killed this man.” Then he ran over the evidence just as I have already done, showing, by the position of the blow, that he could not have given it. Daly listened in silence, every now and then nodding his head; but he did not speak a word until Tom had ended. Then he looked up.
“Very true — very true, indeed,” said he. “It satisfies me an’ your other friends; but it won’t go down with a jury, just now. Reckon you ha’n’t seen the papers lately?”
“No.”
Daly nodded his head; “I guess your folks ha’ kept ’em from you,” he said; “there’s nasty tales going about in ’em just now — tales about you an’ your mate deserting a ship, an’ leaving the captain and the crew to drown in her.”
“But,” said Tom, “I didn’t leave the ship with my own free will — I was taken off by force.”
“That may all be very true; I don’t question your word at all — only this is the report of the committee who examined you an’ your friend. You ought to ha’ told ’em how you were taken off; you had the chance.”
“But I wasn’t going to tell ugly things against my mate, when he wouldn’t tell of them himself.”
“That’s all very fine, but he ha’n’t in prison for murder.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with the matter, anyhow.”
“Don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you. When your case is before the jury, the prosecuting attorney’ll tell ’em that any man who’ld run away from his captain and his shipmates, and leave ’em to drown, wouldn’t hesitate to strike a man from behind. Of course, it isn’t so, but the jury’ll believe it all the same.”
Tom was silent; he saw the weight of what the man said, and his heart sank within him. Daly sat, medita
tively, chewing his tobacco. At last, after expectorating copiously, he broke the silence.
“Never mind, sir,” said he; “I don’t believe that you killed that feller; your argument’s good enough for me. I know too much about this kind o’ thing to believe that you’re the sort of man to strike another from behind. Mr. Gaines tells me that you’re on the track of the man who did do it — let’s have your idee.”
Then Tom told of all the circumstances that led him to suspect Mr. Moor, and once more Daly listened to him without a word. He sat with his elbows on his knees; he had taken a dirty handkerchief out of his hat, and was alternately crushing it together and unfolding it in his hands. When Tom had ended, he looked up at him from under his brows.
“You’ve thought all that out in a mighty derned clever style,” said he. “It’s all as true as gospil. I believe you’re right, and that this man Moor did kill the other feller.”
“I couldn’t make Mr. Gaines believe it as you do,” said Tom.
“Of course, you couldn’t. Mr. Gaines knows this Moor, and always has known him. It’s hard to believe that a man that you’ve seen under your eye every day would do a thing like this. I don’t know anything about him, and I can look at it reasonable like. I believe he did do it. The next thing is to ketch him, and that ain’t goin’ to be so easy, neither, for, without I’m much mistook, he’s as sharp as a steel trap. Never mind, he’ll have to get up early in the morning if he’s going to get ahead of ‘Fatty’ Daly, I can tell you.”
