“Laws forbid, sir!” said the landlady, leaning over him. “Your honor did but swoon for once, to show you was born of a woman, and not made of nought but steel. Here, you gaping loons and sluts, help the Captain to his room amongst ye, and then go about your business.”
This order was promptly executed, so far as assisting Captain Cowen to rise; but he was no sooner on his feet than he waved them all from him haughtily, and said, “Let me be. It is the mind—it is the mind”; and he smote his forehead in despair, for now it all came back on him.
Then he rushed into the inn, and locked himself into his room. Female curiosity buzzed about the doors, but was not admitted until he had recovered his fortitude, and formed a bitter resolution to defend himself and his son against all mankind.
At last there came a timid tap, and a mellow voice said, “It is only me, Captain. Prithee let me in.”
He opened to her, and there was Barbara with a large tray and a snow-white cloth. She spread a table deftly, and uncovered a roast capon, and uncorked a bottle of white port, talking all the time. “The mistress says you must eat a bit, and drink this good wine, for her sake. Indeed, sir, ’twill do you good after your swoon.” With many such encouraging words she got him to sit down and eat, and then filled his glass and put it to his lips. He could not eat much, but he drank the white port—a wine much prized, and purer than the purple vintage of our day.
At last came Barbara’s post-dict. “But alack! to think of your fainting dead away! O Captain, what is the trouble?”
The tear was in Barbara’s eye, though she was the emissary of Dame Cust’s curiosity, and all curiosity herself.
Captain Cowen, who had been expecting this question for some time, replied, doggedly, “I have lost the best friend I had in the world.”
“Dear heart!” said Barbara, and a big tear of sympathy, that had been gathering ever since she entered the room, rolled down her cheeks.
She put up a corner of her apron to her eyes. “Alas, poor soul!” said she. “Ay, I do know how hard it is to love and lose; but bethink you, sir, ’tis the lot of man. Our own turn must come. And you have your son left to thank God for, and a warm friend or two in this place, thof they be but humble.”
“Ay, good wench,” said the soldier, his iron nature touched for a moment by her goodness and simplicity, “and none I value more than thee. But leave me awhile.”
The young woman’s honest cheeks reddened at the praise of such a man. “Your will’s my pleasure, sir,” said she, and retired, leaving the apron and the wine.
Any little compunction he might have at refusing his confidence to this humble friend did not trouble him long. He looked on women as leaky vessels; and he had firmly resolved not to make his situation worse by telling the base world that he was poor. Many a hard rub had put a fine point on this man of steel.
He glozed the matter, too, in his own mind. “I told her no lie. I have lost my best friend, for I’ve lost my money.”
* * *
—
From that day Captain Cowen visited the tap-room no more, and indeed seldom went out by daylight. He was all alone now, for Mr. Gardiner was gone to Wiltshire to collect his rents. In his solitary chamber Cowen ruminated his loss and the villainy of mankind, and his busy brain revolved scheme after scheme to repair the impending ruin of his son’s prospects. It was there the iron entered his soul. The example of the very foot-pads he had baffled occurred to him in his more desperate moments, but he fought the temptation down; and in due course one of them was transported, and one hung; the other languished in Newgate.
By and by he began to be mysteriously busy, and the door always locked. No clew was ever found to his labors but bits of melted wax in the fender and a tuft or two of gray hair, and it was never discovered in Knightsbridge that he often begged in the City at dusk, in a disguise so perfect that a frequenter of the “Swan” once gave him a groat. Thus did he levy his tax upon the stony place that had undone him.
Instead of taking his afternoon walk as heretofore, he would sit disconsolate on the seat of a staircase window that looked into the yard, and so take the air and sun: and it was owing to this new habit he overheard, one day, a dialogue, in which the foggy voice of the hostler predominated at first. He was running down Captain Cowen to a pot-boy. The pot-boy stood up for him. That annoyed Cox. He spoke louder and louder the more he was opposed, till at last he bawled out, “I tell ye I’ve seen him a-sitting by the judge, and I’ve seen him in the dock.”
At these words Captain Cowen recoiled, though he was already out of sight, and his eye glittered like a basilisk’s.
But immediately a new voice broke upon the scene, a woman’s. “Thou foul-mouthed knave! Is it for thee to slander men of worship, and give the inn a bad name? Remember I have but to lift my finger to hang thee, so drive me not to’t. Begone to thy horses this moment; thou art not fit to be among Christians. Begone, I say, or it shall be the worse for thee”; and she drove him across the yard, and followed him up with a current of invectives, eloquent even at a distance though the words were no longer distinct: and who should this be but the housemaid, Barbara Lamb, so gentle, mellow, and melodious before the gentlefolk, and especially her hero, Captain Cowen!
As for Daniel Cox, he cowered, writhed, and wriggled away before her, and slipped into the stable.
Captain Cowen was now soured by trouble, and this persistent enmity of that fellow roused at last a fixed and deadly hatred in his mind, all the more intense that fear mingled with it.
He sounded Barbara; asked her what nonsense that ruffian had been talking, and what he had done that she could hang him for. But Barbara would not say a malicious word against a fellow-servant in cold blood. “I can keep a secret,” said she. “If he keeps his tongue off you, I’ll keep mine.”
“So be it,” said Cowen. “Then I warn you I am sick of his insolence; and drunkards must be taught not to make enemies of sober men nor fools of wise men.” He said this so bitterly that, to soothe him, she begged him not to trouble about the ravings of a sot. “Dear heart,” said she, “nobody heeds Dan Cox.”
Some days afterward she told him that Dan had been drinking harder than ever, and wouldn’t trouble honest folk long, for he had the delusions that go before a drunkard’s end; why, he had told the stable-boy he had seen a vision of himself climb over the garden wall, and enter the house by the back door. “The poor wretch says he knew himself by his bottle nose and his cow-skin waistcoat; and, to be sure, there is no such nose in the parish—thank Heaven for’t!—and not many such waistcoats.” She laughed heartily, but Cowen’s lip curled in a venomous sneer. He said: “More likely ’twas the knave himself. Look to your spoons, if such a face as that walks by night.” Barbara turned grave directly; he eyed her askant, and saw the random shot had gone home.
Captain Cowen now often slept in the City, alleging business.
Mr. Gardiner wrote from Salisbury, ordering his room to be ready and his sheets well aired.
One afternoon he returned with a bag and a small valise, prodigiously heavy. He had a fire lighted, though it was a fine autumn, for he was chilled with his journey, and invited Captain Cowen to sup with him. The latter consented, but begged it might be an early supper, as he must sleep in the City.
“I am sorry for that,” said Gardiner. “I have a hundred and eighty guineas there in that bag, and a man could get into my room from yours.”
“Not if you lock the middle door,” said Cowen. “But I can leave you the key of my outer door, for that matter.”
This offer was accepted; but still Mr. Gardiner felt uneasy. There had been several robberies at inns, and it was a rainy, gusty night. He was depressed and ill at ease. Then Captain Cowen offered him his pistols, and helped him load them—two bullets in each. He also went and fetched him a bottle of the best port, and after drinking one glass with him, h
urried away, and left his key with him for further security.
Mr. Gardiner, left to himself, made up a great fire and drank a glass or two of the wine; it seemed remarkably heady and raised his spirits. After all, it was only for one night; to-morrow he would deposit his gold in the bank. He began to unpack his things and put his nightdress to the fire; but by and by he felt so drowsy that he did but take his coat off, put his pistols under the pillow, and lay down on the bed and fell fast asleep.
That night Barbara Lamb awoke twice, thinking each time she heard doors open and shut on the floor below her.
But it was a gusty night, and she concluded it was most likely the wind. Still a residue of uneasiness made her rise at five instead of six, and she lighted her tinder and came down with a rushlight. She found Captain Cowen’s door wide open; it had been locked when she went to bed. That alarmed her greatly. She looked in. A glance was enough. She cried, “Thieves! thieves!” and in a moment uttered scream upon scream.
In an incredibly short time pale and eager faces of men and women filled the passage.
Cowen’s room, being open, was entered first. On the floor lay what Barbara had seen at a glance—his portmanteau rifled and the clothes scattered about. The door of communication was ajar; they opened it, and an appalling sight met their eyes: Mr. Gardiner was lying in a pool of blood and moaning feebly. There was little hope of saving him; no human body could long survive such a loss of the vital fluid. But it so happened there was a country surgeon in the house. He stanched the wounds—there were three—and somebody or other had the sense to beg the victim to make a statement. He was unable at first; but, under powerful stimulants, revived at last, and showed a strong wish to aid justice in avenging him. By this time they had got a magistrate to attend, and he put his ear to the dying man’s lips; but others heard, so hushed was the room and so keen the awe and curiosity of each panting heart.
“I had gold in my portmanteau, and was afraid. I drank a bottle of wine with Captain Cowen, and he left me. He lent me his key and his pistols. I locked both doors. I felt very sleepy, and lay down. When I awoke, a man was leaning over my portmanteau. His back was toward me. I took a pistol, and aimed steadily. It missed fire. The man turned and sprang on me. I had caught up a knife, one we had for supper. I stabbed him with all my force. He wrested it from me, and I felt piercing blows. I am slain. Ay, I am slain.”
“But the man, sir. Did you not see his face at all?”
“Not till he fell on me. But then, very plainly. The moon shone.”
“Pray describe him.”
“Broken hat.”
“Yes.”
“Hairy waistcoat.”
“Yes.”
“Enormous nose.”
“Do you know him?”
“Ay. The hostler, Cox.”
There was a groan of horror and a cry for vengeance.
“Silence,” said the magistrate. “Mr. Gardiner, you are a dying man. Words may kill. Be careful. Have you any doubts?”
“About what?”
“That the villain was Daniel Cox.”
“None whatever.”
At these words the men and women, who were glaring with pale faces and all their senses strained at the dying man and his faint yet terrible denunciation, broke into two bands; some remained rooted to the place, the rest hurried, with cries of vengeance, in search of Daniel Cox. They were met in the yard by two constables, and rushed first to the stables, not that they hoped to find him there. Of course he had absconded with his booty.
The stable door was ajar. They tore it open.
The gray dawn revealed Cox fast asleep on the straw in the first empty stall, and his bottle in the manger. His clothes were bloody, and the man was drunk. They pulled him, cursed him, struck him, and would have torn him in pieces, but the constables interfered, set him up against the rail, like timber, and searched his bosom, and found—a wound; then turned all his pockets inside out, amidst great expectation, and found—three halfpence and the key of the stable door.
CHAPTER II
They ransacked the straw, and all the premises, and found—nothing.
Then, to make him sober and get something out of him, they pumped upon his head till he was very nearly choked. However, it told on him. He gasped for breath awhile, and rolled his eyes, and then coolly asked them had they found the villain.
They shook their fists at him. “ ’Ay, we have found the villain, red-handed.”
“I mean him as prowls about these parts in my waistcoat, and drove his knife into me last night—wonder a didn’t kill me out of hand. Have ye found him amongst ye?”
This question met with a volley of jeers and execrations, and the constables pinioned him, and bundled him off in a cart to Bow Street, to wait examination.
Meantime two Bow Street runners came down with a warrant, and made a careful examination of the premises. The two keys were on the table. Mr. Gardiner’s outer door was locked. There was no money either in his portmanteau or Captain Cowen’s. Both pistols were found loaded, but no priming in the pan of the one that lay on the bed; the other was primed, but the bullets were above the powder.
Bradbury, one of the runners, took particular notice of all.
Outside, blood was traced from the stable to the garden wall, and under this wall, in the grass, a bloody knife was found belonging to the “Swan” Inn. There was one knife less in Mr. Gardiner’s room than had been carried up to his supper.
Mr. Gardiner lingered till noon, but never spoke again.
The news spread swiftly, and Captain Cowen came home in the afternoon, very pale and shocked.
He had heard of a robbery and murder at the “Swan,” and came to know more. The landlady told him all that had transpired, and that the villain Cox was in prison.
Cowen listened thoughtfully, and said: “Cox! No doubt he is a knave; but murder!—I should never have suspected him of that.”
The landlady pooh-poohed his doubts. “Why, sir, the poor gentleman knew him, and wounded him in self-defence, and the rogue was found a-bleeding from that very wound, and my knife, as done the murder, not a stone’s throw from him as done it, which it was that Dan Cox, and he’ll swing for’t, please God.” Then, changing her tone, she said, solemnly, “You’ll come and see him, sir?”
“Yes,” said Cowen, resolutely, with scarce a moment’s hesitation.
The landlady led the way, and took the keys out of her pocket, and opened Cowen’s door. “We keep all locked,” said she, half apologetically; “the magistrate bade us; and everything as we found it—God help us! There—look at your portmanteau. I wish you may not have been robbed as well.”
“No matter,” said he.
“But it matters to me,” said she, “for the credit of the house.” Then she gave him the key of the inner door, and waved her hand toward it, and sat down and began to cry.
Cowen went in and saw the appalling sight. He returned quickly, looking like a ghost, and muttered, “This is a terrible business.”
“It is a bad business for me and all,” said she. “He have robbed you too, I’ll go bail.”
Captain Cowen examined his trunk carefully. “Nothing to speak of,” said he. “I’ve lost eight guineas and my gold watch.”
“There!—there!—there!” cried the landlady.
“What does that matter, dame? He has lost his life.”
“Ay, poor soul. But ’twont bring him back, you being robbed and all. Was ever such an unfortunate woman? Murder and robbery in my house! Travellers will shun it like a pest-house. And the new landlord he only wanted a good excuse to take down altogether.”
This was followed by more sobbing and crying. Cowen took her downstairs into the bar, and comforted her. They had a glass of spirits together, and he encouraged the flow of her egotism, till at last she fu
lly persuaded herself it was her calamity that one man was robbed and another murdered in her house.
Cowen, always a favorite, quite won her heart by falling into this view of the matter, and when he told her he had important business, and besides had no money left, either in his pockets or his rifled valise, she encouraged him to go and said kindly, indeed it was no place for him now; it was very good of him to come back at all: but both apartments should be scoured and made decent in a very few days; and a new carpet down in Mr. Gardiner’s room.
So Cowen went back to the City, and left this notable woman to mop up her murder.
At Bow Street next morning, in answer to the evidence of his guilt, Cox told a tale which the magistrate said was even more ridiculous than most of the stories uneducated criminals get up on such occasions; with this single comment he committed Cox for trial.
Everybody was of the magistrate’s opinion, except a single Bow Street runner, the same who had already examined the premises. This man suspected Cox, but had one qualm of doubt, founded on the place where he had discovered the knife, and the circumstance of the blood being traced from that place to the stable, and not from the inn to the stable, and on a remark Cox had made to him in the cart. “I don’t belong to the house. I haan’t got no keys to go in and out o’ nights. And if I took a hatful of gold, I’d be off with it into another country—wouldn’t you? Him as took the gentleman’s money, he knew where ’twas, and he have got it; I didn’t and I haan’t.”
Bradbury came down to the “Swan,” and asked the landlady a question or two. She gave him short answers. He then told her that he wished to examine the wine that had come down from Mr. Gardiner’s room.
The landlady looked him in the face, and said it had been drunk by the servants or thrown away long ago.
“I have my doubts of that,” said he.
“And welcome,” said she.
Then he wished to examine the keyholes.
The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries Page 57
