THE CASE OF THE MISSING HAND.
I think I have recorded in another place Hewitt's frequent aphorism that"there is nothing in this world that is at all possible that has nothappened or is not happening in London." But there are many strangehappenings in this matter-of-fact country and in these matter-of-facttimes that occur far enough from London. Fantastic crimes, savagerevenges, mediaeval superstitions, horrible cruelty, though less insight, have been no more extinguished by the advent of the nineteenthcentury than have the ancient races who practised them in the dark ages.Some of the races have become civilized, and some of the savageries areheard of no more. But there are survivals in both cases. I say thesethings having in my mind a particular case that came under the personalnotice of both Hewitt and myself--an affair that brought one up standingwith a gasp and a doubt of one's era.
My good uncle, the Colonel, was not in the habit of gathering largehouse parties at his place at Ratherby, partly because the place wasnot a great one, and partly because the Colonel's gout was. But therewas an excellent bit of shooting for two or three guns, and even when hewas unable to leave the house himself, my uncle was always pleased ifsome good friend were enjoying a good day's sport in his territory. Asto myself, the good old soul was in a perpetual state of offence becauseI visited him so seldom, though whenever my scant holidays fell in aconvenient time of the year I was never insensible to the attractions ofthe Ratherby stubble. More than once had I sat by the old gentleman whenhis foot was exceptionally troublesome, amusing him with accounts ofsome of the doings of Martin Hewitt, and more than once had my uncleexpressed his desire to meet Hewitt himself, and commissioned me with aninvitation to be presented to Hewitt at the first likely opportunity,for a joint excursion to Ratherby. At length I persuaded Hewitt to takea fortnight's rest, coincident with a little vacation of my own, and wegot down to Ratherby within a few days past September the 1st, andbefore a gun had been fired at the Colonel's bit of shooting. TheColonel himself we found confined to the house with his foot on thefamiliar rest, and though ourselves were the only guests, we managed todo pretty well together. It was during this short holiday that the caseI have mentioned arose.
When first I began to record some of the more interesting of Hewitt'soperations, I think I explained that such cases as I myself had notwitnessed I should set down in impersonal narrative form, withoutintruding myself. The present case, so far as Hewitt's work wasconcerned, I saw, but there were circumstances which led up to it thatwe only fully learned afterwards. These circumstances, however, I shallput in their proper place--at the beginning.
The Fosters were a fairly old Ratherby family, of whom Mr. John Fosterhad died by an accident at the age of about forty, leaving a wife twelveyears younger than himself and three children, two boys and one girl,who was the youngest. The boys grew up strong, healthy, out-of-dooryoung ruffians, with all the tastes of sportsmen, and all the qualities,good and bad, natural to lads of fairly well-disposed character alloweda great deal too much of their own way from the beginning.
Their only real bad quality was an unfortunate knack of bearing malice,and a certain savage vindictiveness towards such persons as they choseto consider their enemies. With the louts of the village they were atunceasing war, and, indeed, once got into serious trouble for pepperingthe butcher's son (who certainly was a great blackguard) withsparrow-shot. At the usual time they went to Oxford together, and werefraternally sent down together in their second year, after enjoying aspell of rustication in their first. The offence was never specificallymentioned about Ratherby, but was rumoured of as something particularlyoutrageous.
It was at this time, sixteen years or thereabout after the death oftheir father, that Henry and Robert Foster first saw and disliked Mr.Jonas Sneathy, a director of penny banks and small insurance offices. Hevisited Ranworth (the Fosters' home) a great deal more than the brothersthought necessary, and, indeed, it was not for lack of rudeness on theirpart that Mr. Sneathy failed to understand, as far as they wereconcerned, his room was preferred to his company.
But their mother welcomed him, and in the end it was announced that Mrs.Foster was to marry again, and that after that her name would be Mrs.Sneathy.
Hereupon there were violent scenes at Ranworth. Henry and Robert Fosterdenounced their prospective father-in-law as a fortune-hunter, asnuffler, a hypocrite. They did not stop at broad hints as to thehonesty of his penny banks and insurance offices, and the housestraightway became a house of bitter strife. The marriage took place,and it was not long before Mr. Sneathy's real character became generallyobvious. For months he was a model, if somewhat sanctimonious husband,and his influence over his wife was complete. Then he discovered thather property had been strictly secured by her first husband's will, andthat, willing as she might be, she was unable to raise money for her newhusband's benefit, and was quite powerless to pass to him any of herproperty by deed of gift. Hereupon the man's nature showed itself.Foolish woman as Mrs. Sneathy might be, she was a loving, indeed, aninfatuated wife; but Sneathy repaid her devotion by vulgar derision,never hesitating to state plainly that he had married her for his ownprofit, and that he considered himself swindled in the result. More, heeven proceeded to blows and other practical brutality of a sort onlydevisable by a mean and ugly nature. This treatment, at first secret,became open, and in the midst of it Mr. Sneathy's penny banks andinsurance offices came to a grievous smash all at once, and everybodywondered how Mr. Sneathy kept out of gaol.
Keep out of gaol he did, however, for he had taken care to remain on thesafe side of the law, though some of his co-directors learnt the tasteof penal servitude. But he was beggared, and lived, as it were, a merepensioner in his wife's house. Here his brutality increased to afrightful extent, till his wife, already broken in health inconsequence, went in constant fear of her life, and Miss Foster passeda life of weeping misery. All her friends' entreaties, however, couldnot persuade Mrs. Sneathy to obtain a legal separation from her husband.She clung to him with the excuse--for it was no more--that she hoped towin him to kindness by submission, and with a pathetic infatuation thatseemed to increase as her bodily strength diminished.
Henry and Robert, as may be supposed, were anything but silent in thesecircumstances. Indeed, they broke out violently again and again, andmore than once went near permanently injuring their worthyfather-in-law. Once especially, when Sneathy, absolutely withoutprovocation, made a motion to strike his wife in their presence, therewas a fearful scene. The two sprang at him like wild beasts, knocked himdown and dragged him to the balcony with the intention of throwing himout of the window. But Mrs. Sneathy impeded them, hysterically imploringthem to desist.
"If you lift your hand to my mother," roared Henry, gripping Sneathy bythe throat till his fat face turned blue, and banging his head againstthe wall, "if you lift your hand to my mother again I'll chop it off--Iwill! I'll chop it off and drive it down your throat!"
"We'll do worse," said Robert, white and frantic with passion, "we'llhang you--hang you to the door! You're a proved liar and thief, andyou're worse than a common murderer. I'd hang you to the front door fortwopence!"
For a few days Sneathy was comparatively quiet, cowed by their violence.Then he took to venting redoubled spite on his unfortunate wife, alwaysin the absence of her sons, well aware that she would never inform them.On their part, finding him apparently better behaved in consequence oftheir attack, they thought to maintain his wholesome terror, andscarcely passed him without a menace, taking a fiendish delight inrepeating the threats they had used during the scene, by way of keepingit present to his mind.
"Take care of your hands, sir," they would say. "Keep them to yourself,or, by George, we'll take 'em off with a billhook!"
But his revenge for all this Sneathy took unobserved on their mother.Truly a miserable household.
Soon, however, the brothers left home, and went to London by way oflooking for a profession. Henry began a belated study of medicine, andRobert made a pretence of reading for the bar. I
ndeed, their departurewas as much as anything a consequence of the earnest entreaty of theirsister, who saw that their presence at home was an exasperation toSneathy, and aggravated her mother's secret sufferings. They went,therefore; but at Ranworth things became worse.
Little was allowed to be known outside the house, but it was broadlysaid that Mr. Sneathy's behaviour had now become outrageous beyonddescription. Servants left faster than new ones could be found, and gavetheir late employer the character of a raving maniac. Once, indeed, hecommitted himself in the village, attacking with his walking-stick aninoffensive tradesman who had accidentally brushed against him, andimmediately running home. This assault had to be compounded for by apayment of fifty pounds. And then Henry and Robert Foster received amost urgent letter from their sister requesting their immediate presenceat home.
They went at once, of course, and the servants' account of what occurredwas this. When the brothers arrived Mr. Sneathy had just left the house.The brothers were shut up with their mother and sister for about aquarter of an hour, and then left them and came out to the stable yardtogether. The coachman (he was a new man, who had only arrived the daybefore) overheard a little of their talk as they stood by the door.
Mr. Henry said that "the thing must be done, and at once. There are twoof us, so that it ought to be easy enough." And afterwards Mr. Robertsaid, "You'll know best how to go about it, as a doctor." After whichMr. Henry came towards the coachman and asked in what direction Mr.Sneathy had gone. The coachman replied that it was in the direction ofRatherby Wood, by the winding footpath that led through it. But as hespoke he distinctly with the corner of his eye saw the other brothertake a halter from a hook by the stable door and put it into his coatpocket.
So far for the earlier events, whereof I learned later bit by bit. Itwas on the day of the arrival of the brothers Foster at their old home,and, indeed, little more than two hours after the incident last setdown, that news of Mr. Sneathy came to Colonel Brett's place, whereHewitt and I were sitting and chatting with the Colonel. The news wasthat Mr. Sneathy had committed suicide--had been found hanging, in fact,to a tree in Ratherby Wood, just by the side of the footpath.
Hewitt and I had of course at this time never heard of Sneathy, and theColonel told us what little he knew. He had never spoken to the man, hesaid--indeed, nobody in the place outside Ranworth would have anythingto do with him. "He's certainly been an unholy scoundrel over those poorpeople's banks," said my uncle, "and if what they say's true, he's beenabout as bad as possible to his wretched wife. He must have been prettymiserable, too, with all his scoundrelism, for he was a completelyruined man, without a chance of retrieving his position, and detested byeverybody. Indeed, some of his recent doings, if what I have heard is tobe relied on, have been very much those of a madman. So that, on thewhole, I'm not much surprised. Suicide's about the only crime, Isuppose, that he has never experimented with till now, and, indeed, it'srather a service to the world at large--his only service, I expect."
The Colonel sent a man to make further inquiries, and presently this manreturned with the news that now it was said that Mr. Sneathy had notcommitted suicide, but had been murdered. And hard on the man's heelscame Mr. Hardwick, a neighbour of my uncle's and a fellow J. P. He hadhad the case reported to him, it seemed, as soon as the body had beenfound, and had at once gone to the spot. He had found the bodyhanging--_and with the right hand cut off_.
"It's a murder, Brett," he said, "without doubt--a most horrible case ofmurder and mutilation. The hand is cut off and taken away, but whetherthe atrocity was committed before or after the hanging of course I can'tsay. But the missing hand makes it plainly a case of murder, and notsuicide. I've come to consult you about issuing a warrant, for I thinkthere's no doubt as to the identity of the murderers."
"That's a good job," said the Colonel, "else we should have had somework for Mr. Martin Hewitt here, which wouldn't be fair, as he's takinga rest. Whom do you think of having arrested?"
"The two young Fosters. It's plain as it can be--and a most revoltingcrime too, bad as Sneathy may have been. They came down from Londonto-day and went out deliberately to it, it's clear. They were heardtalking of it, asked as to the direction in which he had gone, andfollowed him--and with a rope."
"Isn't that rather an unusual form of murder--hanging?" Hewitt remarked.
"Perhaps it is," Mr. Hardwick replied; "but it's the case here plainenough. It seems, in fact, that they had a way of threatening to hanghim and even to cut off his hand if he used it to strike their mother.So that they appear to have carried out what might have seemed mere idlethreats in a diabolically savage way. Of course they _may_ havestrangled him first and hanged him after, by way of carrying out theirthreat and venting their spite on the mutilated body. But that they didit is plain enough for me. I've spent an hour or two over it, and feel Iam certainly more than justified in ordering their apprehension. Indeed,they were with him at the time, as I have found by their tracks on thefootpath through the wood."
The Colonel turned to Martin Hewitt. "Mr. Hardwick, you must know," hesaid, "is by way of being an amateur in your particular line--and a verygood amateur, too, I should say, judging by a case or two I have knownin this county."
Hewitt bowed, and laughingly expressed a fear lest Mr. Hardwick shouldcome to London and supplant him altogether. "This seems a curious case,"he added. "If you don't mind, I think I should like to take a glance atthe tracks and whatever other traces there may be, just by way ofkeeping my hand in."
"Certainly," Mr. Hardwick replied, brightening. "I should of all thingslike to have Mr. Hewitt's opinions on the observations I have made--justfor my own gratification. As to his opinion--there can be no room fordoubt; the thing is plain."
With many promises not to be late for dinner, we left my uncle andwalked with Mr. Hardwick in the direction of Ratherby Wood. It was anunfrequented part, he told us, and by particular care he had managed, hehoped, to prevent the rumour spreading to the village yet, so that wemight hope to find the trails not yet overlaid. It was a man of his own,he said, who, making a short cut through the wood, had come upon thebody hanging, and had run immediately to inform him. With this man hehad gone back, cut down the body, and made his observations. He hadfollowed the trail backward to Ranworth, and there had found the newcoachman, who had once been in his own service. From him he had learnedthe doings of the brothers Foster as they left the place, and from himhe had ascertained that they had not then returned. Then, leaving hisman by the body, he had come straight to my uncle's.
Presently we came on the footpath leading from Ranworth across the fieldto Ratherby Wood. It was a mere trail of bare earth worn by successivefeet amid the grass. It was damp, and we all stooped and examined thefootmarks that were to be seen on it. They all pointed one way--towardsthe wood in the distance.
"Fortunately it's not a greatly frequented path," Mr. Hardwick said."You see, there are the marks of three pairs of feet only, and as firstSneathy and then both of the brothers came this way, these footmarksmust be theirs. Which are Sneathy's is plain--they are these large flatones. If you notice, they are all distinctly visible in the centre ofthe track, showing plainly that they belong to the man who walked alone,which was Sneathy. Of the others, the marks of the _outside_ feet--theleft on the left side and the right on the right--are often notvisible. Clearly they belong to two men walking side by side, and moreoften than not treading, with their outer feet, on the grass at theside. And where these happen to drop on the same spot as the marks inthe middle they cover them. Plainly they are the footmarks of Henry andRobert Foster, made as they followed Sneathy. Don't you agree with meMr. Hewitt?"
"Oh yes, that's very plain. You have a better pair of eyes than mostpeople, Mr. Hardwick, and a good idea of using them, too. We will gointo the wood now. As a matter of fact I can pretty clearly distinguishmost of the other footmarks--those on the grass; but that's a matter ofmuch training."
We followed the footpath, keeping on the grass at its side, in c
ase itshould be desirable to refer again to the foot-tracks. For some littledistance into the wood the tracks continued as before, those of thebrothers overlaying those of Sneathy. Then there was a difference. Thepath here was broader and muddy, because of the proximity of trees, andsuddenly the outer footprints separated, and no more overlay the largerones in the centre, but proceeded at an equal distance on either side ofthem.
"See there," cried Mr. Hardwick, pointing triumphantly to the spot,"this is where they overtook him, and walked on either side. The bodywas found only a little farther on--you could see the place now if thepath didn't zigzag about so."
Hewitt said nothing, but stooped and examined the tracks at the sideswith great care and evident thought, spanning the distances between themcomparatively with his arms. Then he rose and stepped lightly from onemark to another, taking care not to tread on the mark itself. "Verygood," he said shortly on finishing his examination. "We'll go on."
We went on, and presently came to the place where the body lay. Herethe ground sloped from the left down towards the right, and a tinystreamlet, a mere trickle of a foot or two wide, ran across the path.In rainy seasons it was probably wider, for all the earth and clay hadbeen washed away for some feet on each side, leaving flat, bare and verycoarse gravel, on which the trail was lost. Just beyond this, and to theleft, the body lay on a grassy knoll under the limb of a tree, fromwhich still depended a part of the cut rope. It was not a pleasantsight. The man was a soft, fleshy creature, probably rather under thanover the medium height, and he lay there, with his stretched neck andprotruding tongue, a revolting object. His right arm lay by his side,and the stump of the wrist was clotted with black blood. Mr. Hardwick'sman was still in charge, seemingly little pleased with his job, and afew yards off stood a couple of countrymen looking on.
Hewitt asked from which direction these men had come, and havingascertained and noticed their footmarks, he asked them to stay exactlywhere they were, to avoid confusing such other tracks as might be seen.Then he addressed himself to his examination. "_First_," he said,glancing up at the branch, that was scarce a yard above his head, "thisrope has been here for some time."
"Yes," Mr. Hardwick replied, "it's an old swing rope. Some children usedit in the summer, but it got partly cut away, and the odd couple ofyards has been hanging since."
"Ah," said Hewitt, "then if the Fosters did this they were saved sometrouble by the chance, and were able to take their halter back withthem--and so avoid _one_ chance of detection." He very closelyscrutinised the top of a tree stump, probably the relic of a tree thathad been cut down long before, and then addressed himself to the body.
"When you cut it down," he said, "did it fall in a heap?"
"No, my man eased it down to some extent."
"Not on to its face?"
"Oh no. On to its back, just as it is now." Mr. Hardwick saw that Hewittwas looking at muddy marks on each of the corpse's knees, to one ofwhich a small leaf clung, and at one or two other marks of the samesort on the fore part of the dress. "That seems to show pretty plainly,"he said, "that he must have struggled with them and was thrown forward,doesn't it?"
Hewitt did not reply, but gingerly lifted the right arm by its sleeve."Is either of the brothers Foster left-handed?" he asked.
"No, I think not. Here, Bennett, you have seen plenty of theirdoings--cricket, shooting, and so on--do you remember if either isleft-handed?"
"Nayther, sir," Mr. Hardwick's man answered. "Both on 'em'sright-handed."
Hewitt lifted the lapel of the coat and attentively regarded a smallrent in it. The dead man's hat lay near, and after a few glances atthat, Hewitt dropped it and turned his attention to the hair. This wascoarse and dark and long, and brushed straight back with no parting.
"This doesn't look very symmetrical, does it?" Hewitt remarked, pointingto the locks over the right ear. They were shorter just there than onthe other side, and apparently very clumsily cut, whereas in every otherpart the hair appeared to be rather well and carefully trimmed. Mr.Hardwick said nothing, but fidgeted a little, as though he consideredthat valuable time was being wasted over irrelevant trivialities.
Presently, however, he spoke. "There's very little to be learned fromthe body, is there?" he said. "I think I'm quite justified in orderingtheir arrest, eh?--indeed, I've wasted too much time already."
Hewitt was groping about among some bushes behind the tree from whichthe corpse had been taken. When he answered, he said, "I don't think Ishould do anything of the sort just now, Mr. Hardwick. As a matter offact, I _fancy_"--this word with an emphasis--"that the brothers Fostermay not have seen this man Sneathy at all to-day."
"Not seen him? Why, my dear sir, there's no question of it. It'scertain, absolutely. The evidence is positive. The fact of the threatsand of the body being found treated so is pretty well enough, I shouldthink. But that's nothing--look at those footmarks. They've walked alongwith him, one each side, without a possible doubt; plainly they were thelast people with him, in any case. And you don't mean to ask anybody tobelieve that the dead man, even if he hanged himself, cut off his ownhand first. Even if you do, where's the hand? And even putting aside allthese considerations, each a complete case in itself, the Fosters _must_at least have seen the body as they came past, and yet nothing has beenheard of them yet. Why didn't they spread the alarm? They went straightaway in the opposite direction from home--there are their footmarks,which you've not seen yet, beyond the gravel."
Hewitt stepped over to where the patch of clean gravel ceased, at theopposite side to that from which we had approached the brook, and there,sure enough, were the now familiar footmarks of the brothers leadingaway from the scene of Sneathy's end. "Yes," Hewitt said, "I see them.Of course, Mr. Hardwick, you'll do what seems right in your own eyes,and in any case not much harm will be done by the arrest beyond aterrible fright for that unfortunate family. Nevertheless, if you carefor my impression, it is, as I have said, that the Fosters have not seenSneathy to-day."
"But what about the hand?"
"As to that I have a conjecture, but as yet it is only a conjecture, andif I told it you would probably call it absurd--certainly you'ddisregard it, and perhaps quite excusably. The case is a complicatedone, and, if there is anything at all in my conjecture, one of the mostremarkable I have ever had to do with. It interests me intensely, and Ishall devote a little time now to following up the theory I have formed.You have, I suppose, already communicated with the police?"
"I wired to Shopperton at once, as soon as I heard of the matter. It's atwelve miles drive, but I wonder the police have not arrived yet. Theycan't be long; I don't know where the village constable has got to, butin any case _he_ wouldn't be much good. But as to your idea that theFosters can't be suspected--well, nobody could respect your opinion, Mr.Hewitt, more than myself, but really, just think. The notion'simpossible--fiftyfold impossible. As soon as the police arrive I shallhave that trail followed and the Fosters apprehended. I should be a foolif I didn't."
"Very well, Mr. Hardwick," Hewitt replied; "you'll do what you consideryour duty, of course, and quite properly, though I _would_ recommend youto take another glance at those three trails in the path. I shall take alook in this direction." And he turned up by the side of the streamlet,keeping on the gravel at its side.
I followed. We climbed the rising ground, and presently, among thetrees, came to the place where the little rill emerged from the brokenground in the highest part of the wood. Here the clean ground ceased,and there was a large patch of wet clayey earth. Several marks left bythe feet of cattle were there, and one or two human footmarks. Two ofthese (a pair), the newest and the most distinct, Hewitt studiedcarefully, and measured each direction.
"Notice these marks," he said. "They may be of importance or they maynot--that we shall see. Fortunately they are very distinctive--the rightboot is a badly worn one, and a small tag of leather, where the soul isdamaged, is doubled over and trodden into the soft earth. Nothing couldbe luckier. Clearly they are the m
ost recent footsteps in thisdirection--from the main road, which lies right ahead, through the restof the wood."
"Then you think somebody else has been on the scene of the tragedy,beside the victim and the brothers?" I said.
"Yes, I do. But hark; there is a vehicle in the road. Can you seebetween the trees? Yes, it is the police cart. We shall be able toreport its arrival to Mr. Hardwick as we go down."
We turned and walked rapidly down the incline to where we had come from.Mr. Hardwick and his man were still there, and another rustic hadarrived to gape. We told Mr. Hardwick that he might expect the policepresently, and proceeded along the gravel skirting the stream, towardthe lower part of the wood.
Here Hewitt proceeded very cautiously, keeping a sharp look-out oneither side for footprints on the neighbouring soft ground. There werenone, however, for the gravel margin of the stream made a sort offootpath of itself, and the trees and undergrowth were close and thickon each side. At the bottom we emerged from the wood on a small pieceof open ground skirting a lane, and here, just by the side of the lane,where the stream fell into a trench, Hewitt suddenly pounced on anotherfootmark. He was unusually excited.
"See," he said, "here it is--the right foot with its broken leather, andthe corresponding left foot on the damp edge of the lane itself. He--theman with the broken shoe--has walked on the hard gravel all the way downfrom the source of the stream, and his is the only trail unaccounted fornear the body. Come, Brett, we've an adventure on foot. Do you care tolet your uncle's dinner go by the board, and follow?"
"Can't we go back and tell him?"
"No--there's no time to lose; we must follow up this man--or at least Imust. You go or stay, of course, as you think best."
I hesitated a moment, picturing to myself the excellent Colonel as hewould appear after waiting dinner an hour or two for us, but decided togo. "At any rate," I said, "if the way lies along the roads we shallprobably meet somebody going in the direction of Ratherby who will takea message. But what is your theory? I don't understand at all. I mustsay everything Hardwick said seemed to me to be beyond question. Therewere the tracks to prove that the three had walked together to thespot, and that the brothers had gone on alone; and every othercircumstance pointed the same way. Then, what possible motive couldanybody else about here have for such a crime? Unless, indeed, it wereone of the people defrauded by Sneathy's late companies."
"The motive," said Hewitt, "is, I fancy, a most extraordinary--indeed, aweird one. A thing as of centuries ago. Ask me no questions--I think youwill be a little surprised before very long. But come, we must move."And we mended our pace along the lane.
The lane, by the bye, was hard and firm, with scarcely a spot where atrack might be left, except in places at the sides; and at these placesHewitt never gave a glance. At the end the lane turned into a by-road,and at the turning Hewitt stopped and scrutinised the ground closely.There was nothing like a recognisable footmark to be seen; but almostimmediately Hewitt turned off to the right, and we continued our briskmarch without a glance at the road.
"How did you judge which way to turn then?" I asked.
"Didn't you see?" replied Hewitt; "I'll show you at the next turning."
Half a mile farther on the road forked, and here Hewitt stooped andpointed silently to a couple of small twigs, placed crosswise, with thelonger twig of the two pointing down the branch of the road to the left.We took the branch to the left, and went on.
"Our man's making a mistake," Hewitt observed. "He leaves his friends'messages lying about for his enemies to read."
We hurried forward with scarcely a word. I was almost too bewildered bywhat Hewitt had said and done to formulate anything like a reasonableguess as to what our expedition tended, or even to make an effectiveinquiry--though, after what Hewitt had said, I knew that would beuseless. Who was this mysterious man with the broken shoe? what had heto do with the murder of Sneathy? what did the mutilation mean? and whowere his friends who left him signs and messages by means of crossedtwigs?
We met a man, by whom I sent a short note to my uncle, and soon after weturned into a main road. Here again, at the corner, was the curiousmessage of twigs. A cart-wheel had passed over and crushed them, but ithad not so far displaced them as to cause any doubt that the directionto take was to the right. At an inn a little farther along we entered,and Hewitt bought a pint of Irish whisky and a flat bottle to hold itin, as well as a loaf of bread and some cheese, which we carried awaywrapped in paper.
"This will have to do for our dinner," Hewitt said as we emerged.
"But we're not going to drink a pint of common whisky between us?" Iasked in some astonishment.
"Never mind," Hewitt answered with a smile. "Perhaps we'll find somebodyto help us--somebody not so fastidious as yourself as to quality."
Now we hurried--hurried more than ever, for it was beginning to getdusk, and Hewitt feared a difficulty in finding and reading the twigsigns in the dark. Two more turnings we made, each with its silentdirection--the crossed twigs. To me there was something almost weird andcreepy in this curious hunt for the invisible and incomprehensible,guided faithfully and persistently at every turn by this nowunmistakable signal. After the second turning we broke into a trot alonga long, winding lane, but presently Hewitt's hand fell on my shoulder,and we stopped. He pointed ahead, where some large object, round a bendof the hedge was illuminated as though by a light from below.
"We will walk now," Hewitt said. "Remember that we are on a walkingtour, and have come along here entirely by accident."
We proceeded at a swinging walk, Hewitt whistling gaily. Soon we turnedthe bend, and saw that the large object was a travelling van drawn upwith two others on a space of grass by the side of the lane. It was agipsy encampment, the caravan having apparently only lately stopped, fora man was still engaged in tugging at the rope of a tent that stood nearthe vans. Two or three sullen-looking ruffians lay about a fire whichburned in the space left in the middle of the encampment. A woman stoodat the door of one van with a large kettle in her hand, and at the footof the steps below her a more pleasant-looking old man sat on aninverted pail. Hewitt swung towards the fire from the road, and with anindescribable mixture of slouch, bow, and smile addressed the companygenerally with "_Kooshto bock, pals!_"[1]
[1] "Good luck, brothers!"
The men on the ground took no notice, but continued to stare doggedlybefore them. The man working at the tent looked round quickly for amoment, and the old man on the bucket looked up and nodded.
Quick to see the most likely friend, Hewitt at once went up to the oldman, extending his hand, "_Sarshin, daddo?_" he said; "_Dell mandytooty's varst._"[2]
[2] "How do you do, father? Give me your hand."
The old man smiled and shook hands, though without speaking. ThenHewitt proceeded, producing the flat bottle of whisky, "_Tatty forpawny, chals. Dell mandy the pawny, and lell posh the tatty._"[3]
[3] "Spirits for water, lads. Give me the water and take your share of the spirits."
The whisky did it. We were Romany ryes in twenty minutes or less, andhad already been taking tea with the gipsies for half the time. The twoor three we had found about the fire were still reserved, but these, Ifound, were only half-gipsies, and understood very little Romany. One ortwo others, however, including the old man, were of purer breed, andtalked freely, as did one of the women. They were Lees, they said, andexpected to be on Wirksby racecourse in three days' time. We, too, were_pirimengroes_, or travellers, Hewitt explained, and might look to seethem on the course.
Then he fell to telling gipsy stories, and they to telling others back,to my intense mystification. Hewitt explained afterwards that they weremostly stories of poaching, with now and again a horse-coping anecdotethrown in. Since then I have learned enough of Romany to take my part insuch a conversation, but at the time a word or two here and there wasall I could understand. In all this talk the man we had first noticedstretching the tent-rope took very little interest, but lay, with his
head away from the fire, smoking his pipe. He was a much darker manthan any other present--had, in fact, the appearance of a man of even aswarthier race than that of the others about us.
Presently, in the middle of a long and, of course, to me unintelligiblestory by the old man, I caught Hewitt's eye. He lifted one eyebrowalmost imperceptibly, and glanced for a single moment at hiswalking-stick. Then I saw that it was pointed toward the feet of thevery dark man, who had not yet spoken. One leg was thrown over theothers as he lay, with the soles of his shoes presented toward the fire,and in its glare I saw--that the right sole was worn and broken, andthat a small triangular tag of leather was doubled over beneath in justthe place we knew of from the prints in Ratherby Wood.
I could not take my eyes off that man with his broken shoe. There laythe secret, the whole mystery of the fantastic crime in Ratherby Woodcentred in that shabby ruffian. What was it?
But Hewitt went on, talking and joking furiously. The men who were notspeaking mostly smoked gloomily, but whenever one spoke, he becameanimated and lively. I had attempted once or twice to join in, though myefforts were not particularly successful, except in inducing one man tooffer me tobacco from his box--tobacco that almost made me giddy in thesmell. He tried some of mine in exchange, and though he praised it withnative politeness, and smoked the pipe through, I could see that myHignett mixture was poor stuff in his estimation, compared with theawful tobacco in his own box.
Presently the man with the broken shoe got up, slouched over to histent, and disappeared. Then said Hewitt (I translate):
"You're not all Lees here, I see?"
"Yes, _pal_, all Lees."
"But _he's_ not a Lee?" and Hewitt jerked his head towards the tent.
"Why not a Lee, _pal_? We be Lees, and he is with us. Thus he is a Lee."
"Oh yes, of course. But I know he is from over the _pawny_. Come, I'llguess the _tem_[4] he comes from--it's from Roumania, eh? Perhaps theWallachian part?"
[4] Country.
The men looked at one another, and then the old Lee said:
"You're right, pal. You're cleverer than we took you for. That is whatthey calls his _tem_. He is a petulengro,[5]and he comes with us to shoethe _gries_[6] and mend the _vardoes_.[7] But he is with us, and so heis a Lee."
[5] Smith.
[6] Horses.
[7] Vans.
The talk and the smoke went on, and presently the man with the brokenshoe returned, and lay down again. Then, when the whisky had all gone,and Hewitt, with some excuse that I did not understand, had begged apiece of cord from one of the men, we left in a chorus of _kooshtorardies_.[8]
[8] Good-night.
By this time it was nearly ten o'clock. We walked briskly till we cameback again to the inn where we had bought the whisky. Here Hewitt, aftersome little trouble, succeeded in hiring a village cart, and while thedriver was harnessing the horse, cut a couple of short sticks from thehedge. These, being each divided into two, made four short, stout piecesof something less than six inches long apiece. Then Hewitt joined themtogether in pairs, each pair being connected from centre to centre byabout nine or ten inches of the cord he had brought from the gipsies'camp. These done, he handed one pair to me. "Handcuffs," he explained,"and no bad ones either. See--you use them so." And he passed the cordround my wrist, gripping the two handles, and giving them a slight twistthat sufficiently convinced me of the excruciating pain that might beinflicted by a vigorous turn, and the utter helplessness of a prisonerthus secured in the hands of captors prepared to use their instruments.
"Whom are these for?" I asked. "The man with the broken shoe?"
Hewitt nodded.
"Yes," he said. "I expect we shall find him out alone about midnight.You know how to use these now."
It was fully eleven before the cart was ready and we started. A quarterof a mile or so from the gipsy encampment Hewitt stopped the cart andgave the driver instructions to wait. We got through the hedge, and madeour way on the soft ground behind it in the direction of the vans andthe tent.
"Roll up your handkerchief," Hewitt whispered, "into a tight pad. Themoment I grab him, ram it into his mouth--_well_ in, mind, so that itdoesn't easily fall out. Probably he will be stooping--that will make iteasier; we can pull him suddenly backward. Now be quiet."
We kept on till nothing but the hedge divided us from the space whereonstood the encampment. It was now nearer twelve o'clock than eleven, butthe time we waited seemed endless. But time is not eternity after all,and at last we heard a move in the tent. A minute after, the man wesought was standing before us. He made straight for a gap in the hedgewhich we had passed on our way, and we crouched low and waited. Heemerged on our side of the hedge with his back towards us, and beganwalking, as we had walked, behind the hedge, but in the oppositedirection. We followed.
He carried something in his hand that looked like a large bundle ofsticks and twigs, and he appeared to be as anxious to be secret as weourselves. From time to time he stopped and listened; fortunately therewas no moon, or in turning about, as he did once or twice, he wouldprobably have observed us. The field sloped downward just before us, andthere was another hedge at right angles, leading down to a slighthollow. To this hollow the man made his way, and in the shade of the newhedge we followed. Presently he stopped suddenly, stooped, and depositedhis bundle on the ground before him. Crouching before it, he producedmatches from his pocket, struck one, and in a moment had a fire of twigsand small branches, that sent up a heavy white smoke. What all thisportended I could not imagine, but a sense of the weirdness of the wholeadventure came upon me unchecked. The horrible corpse in the wood, withits severed wrist, Hewitt's enigmatical forebodings, the mysterioustracking of the man with the broken shoe, the scene round the gipsies'fire, and now the strange behaviour of this man, whose connection withthe tragedy was so intimate and yet so inexplicable--all these thingscontributed to make up a tale of but a few hours' duration, but of aninscrutable impressiveness that I began to feel in my nerves.
The man bent a thin stick double, and using it as a pair of tongs, heldsome indistinguishable object over the flames before him. Excited as Iwas, I could not help noticing that he bent and held the stick with hisleft hand. We crept stealthily nearer, and as I stood scarcely threeyards behind him and looked over his shoulder, the form of the objectstood out clear and black against the dull red of the flame. It was a_human hand_.
I suppose I may have somehow betrayed my amazement and horror to mycompanion's sharp eyes, for suddenly I felt his hand tightly grip my armjust above the elbow. I turned, and found his face close by mine and hisfinger raised warningly. Then I saw him produce his wrist-grip and makea motion with his palm toward his mouth, which I understood to beintended to remind me of the gag. We stepped forward.
The man turned his horrible cookery over and over above the cracklingsticks, as though to smoke and dry it in every part. I saw Hewitt's handreach out toward him, and in a flash we had pulled him back over hisheels and I had driven the gag between his teeth as he opened his mouth.We seized his wrists in the cords at once, and I shall never forget theman's look of ghastly, frantic terror as he lay on the ground. When Iknew more I understood the reason of this.
Hewitt took both wristholds in one hand and drove the gag entirely intothe man's mouth, so that he almost choked. A piece of sacking lay nearthe fire, and by Hewitt's request I dropped that awful hand from thewooden twigs upon it and rolled it up in a parcel--it was, no doubt,what the sacking had been brought for. Then we lifted the man to hisfeet and hurried him in the direction of the cart. The whole capturecould not have occupied thirty seconds, and as I stumbled over the roughfield at the man's left elbow I could only think of the thing as onethinks of a dream that one knows all the time _is_ a dream.
But presently the man, who had been walking quietly, though gasping,sniffing and choking because of the tightly rolled handkerchief in hismouth--presently he made a sudden dive, thinking doubtless to get hiswrists free by surprise. But Hewitt
was alert, and gave them a twistthat made him roll his head with a dismal, stifled yell, and with theopening of his mouth, by some chance the gag fell away. Immediately theman roared aloud for help.
"Quick," said Hewitt, "drag him along--they'll hear in the vans. Bringthe hand!"
I seized the fallen handkerchief and crammed it over the man's mouth aswell as I might, and together we made as much of a trot as we could,dragging the man between us, while Hewitt checked any reluctance on hispart by a timely wrench of the wristholds. It was a hard two hundred andfifty yards to the lane even for us--for the gipsy it must have been abad minute and a half indeed. Once more as we went over the unevenground he managed to get out a shout, and we thought we heard a distinctreply from somewhere in the direction of the encampment.
We pulled him over a stile in a tangle; and dragged and pushed himthrough a small hedge-gap all in a heap. Here we were but a shortdistance from the cart, and into that we flung him without wasting timeor tenderness, to the intense consternation of the driver, who, Ibelieve, very nearly set up a cry for help on his own account. Once inthe cart, however, I seized the reins and the whip myself and, leavingHewitt to take care of the prisoner, put the turn-out along towardRatherby at as near ten miles an hour as it could go.
We made first for Mr. Hardwick's, but he, we found, was with my uncle,so we followed him. The arrest of the Fosters had been effected, welearned, not very long after we had left the wood, as they returned byanother route to Ranworth. We brought our prisoner into the Colonel'slibrary, where he and Mr. Hardwick were sitting.
"I'm not quite sure what we can charge him with unless it's anatomicalrobbery," Hewitt remarked, "but here's the criminal."
The man only looked down, with a sulkily impenetrable countenance.Hewitt spoke to him once or twice, and at last he said, in a strangeaccent, something that sounded like "_kekin jin-navvy._"
"_Keck jin?_"[9] asked Hewitt, in the loud, clear tone one instinctivelyadopts in talking to a foreigner, "_Keckeno jinny?_"
[9] "Not understand?"
The man understood and shook his head, but not another word would he sayor another question answer.
"He's a foreign gipsy," Hewitt explained, "just as I thought--aWallachian, in fact. Theirs is an older and purer dialect than that ofthe English gipsies, and only some of the root-words are alike. But Ithink we can make him explain to-morrow that the Fosters at least hadnothing to do with, at any rate, cutting off Sneathy's hand. Here it is,I think." And he gingerly lifted the folds of sacking from the ghastlyobject as it lay on the table, and then covered it up again.
"But what--what does it all mean?" Mr. Hardwick said in bewilderedastonishment. "Do you mean this man was an accomplice?"
"Not at all--the case was one of suicide, as I think you'll agree, whenI've explained. This man simply found the body hanging and stole thehand."
"But what in the world for?"
"For the HAND OF GLORY. Eh?" He turned to the gipsy and pointed to thehand on the table: "_Yag-varst_,[10] eh?"
[10] Fire-hand.
There was a quick gleam of intelligence in the man's eye, but he saidnothing. As for myself I was more than astounded. Could it be possiblethat the old superstition of the Hand of Glory remained alive in apractical shape at this day?
"You know the superstition, of course," Hewitt said. "It did exist inthis country in the last century, when there were plenty of dead menhanging at cross-roads, and so on. On the Continent, in some places, ithas survived later. Among the Wallachian gipsies it has always been agreat article of belief, and the superstition is quite active still. Thebelief is that the right hand of a hanged man, cut off and dried overthe smoke of certain wood and herbs, and then provided with wicks ateach finger made of the dead man's hair, becomes, when lighted at eachwick (the wicks are greased, of course), a charm, whereby a thief maywalk without hinderance where he pleases in a strange house, push openall doors and take what he likes. Nobody can stop him, for everybody theHand of Glory approaches is made helpless, and can neither move norspeak. You may remember there was some talk of 'thieves' candles' inconnection with the horrible series of Whitechapel murders not long ago.That is only one form of the cult of the Hand of Glory."
"Yes," my uncle said, "I remember reading so. There is a story about itin the Ingoldsby Legends, too, I believe."
"There is--it is called 'The Hand of Glory,' in fact. You remember thespell, 'Open lock to the dead man's knock,' and so on. But I think you'dbetter have the constable up and get this man into safe quarters for thenight. He should be searched, of course. I expect they will find on himthe hair I noticed to have been cut from Sneathy's head."
The village constable arrived with his iron handcuffs in substitutionfor those of cord which had so sorely vexed the wrists of our prisoner,and marched him away to the little lock-up on the green.
Then my uncle and Mr. Hardwick turned on Martin Hewitt with doubts andmany questions:
"Why do you call it suicide?" Mr. Hardwick asked. "It is plain theFosters were with him at the time from the tracks. Do you mean to saythat they stood there and watched Sneathy hang himself withoutinterfering?"
"No, I don't," Hewitt replied, lighting a cigar. "I think I told youthat they never saw Sneathy."
"Yes, you did, and of course that's what they said themselves when theywere arrested. But the thing's impossible. Look at the tracks!"
"The tracks are exactly what revealed to me that it was _not_impossible," Hewitt returned. "I'll tell you how the case unfoldeditself to me from the beginning. As to the information you gathered fromthe Ranworth coachman, to begin with. The conversation between theFosters which he overheard might well mean something less serious thanmurder. What did they say? They had been sent for in a hurry and hadjust had a short consultation with their mother and sister. Henry saidthat 'the thing must be done at once'; also that as there were two ofthem it should be easy. Robert said that Henry, as a doctor, would knowbest what to do.
"Now you, Colonel Brett, had been saying--before we learned these thingsfrom Mr. Hardwick--that Sneathy's behaviour of late had become so bad asto seem that of a madman. Then there was the story of his sudden attackon a tradesman in the village, and equally sudden running away--exactlythe sort of impulsive, wild thing that madmen do. Why then might it notbe reasonable to suppose that Sneathy _had_ become mad--more especiallyconsidering all the circumstances of the case, his commercial ruin anddisgrace and his horrible life with his wife and her family?--had becomesuddenly much worse and quite uncontrollable, so that the two wretchedwomen left alone with him were driven to send in haste for Henry andRobert to help them? That would account for all.
"The brothers arrive just after Sneathy had gone out. They are told in ahurried interview how affairs stand, and it is decided that Sneathy mustbe at once secured and confined in an asylum before something serioushappens. He has just gone out--something terrible may be happening atthis moment. The brothers determine to follow at once and secure himwherever he may be. Then the meaning of their conversation is plain. Thething that 'must be done, and at once,' is the capture of Sneathy andhis confinement in an asylum. Henry, as a doctor, would 'know what todo' in regard to the necessary formalities. And they took a halter incase a struggle should ensue and it were found necessary to bind him.Very likely, wasn't it?"
"Well, yes," Mr. Hardwick replied, "it certainly is. It never struck mein that light at all."
"That was because you believed, to begin with, that a murder had beencommitted, and looked at the preliminary circumstances which you learnedafter in the light of your conviction. But now, to come to my actualobservations. I saw the footmarks across the fields, and agreed with you(it was indeed obvious) that Sneathy had gone that way first, and thatthe brothers had followed, walking over his tracks. This state of thetracks continued until well into the wood, when suddenly the tracks ofthe brothers opened out and proceeded on each side of Sneathy's. Thesimple inference would seem to be, of course, the one you made--that theFosters had here over
taken Sneathy, and walked one at each side of him.
"But of this I felt by no means certain. Another very simple explanationwas available, which might chance to be the true one. It was just at thespot where the brothers' tracks separated that the path became suddenlymuch muddier, because of the closer overhanging of the trees at thespot. The path was, as was to be expected, wettest in the middle. Itwould be the most natural thing in the world for two well-dressed youngmen, on arriving here, to separate so as to walk one on each side of themud in the middle.
"On the other hand, a man in Sneathy's state (assuming him, for themoment, to be mad and contemplating suicide) would walk straight alongthe centre of the path, taking no note of mud or anything else. Iexamined all the tracks very carefully, and my theory was confirmed. Thefeet of the brothers had everywhere alighted in the driest spots, andthe steps were of irregular lengths--which meant, of course, that theywere picking their way; while Sneathy's footmarks had never turned asideeven for the dirtiest puddle. Here, then, were the rudiments of atheory.
"At the watercourse, of course, the footmarks ceased, because of thehard gravel. The body lay on a knoll at the left--a knoll covered withgrass. On this the signs of footmarks were almost undiscoverable,although I am often able to discover tracks in grass that are invisibleto others. Here, however, it was almost useless to spend much time inexamination, for you and your man had been there, and what slight marksthere might be would be indistinguishable one from another.
"Under the branch from which the man had hung there was an old treestump, with a flat top, where the tree had been sawn off. I examinedthis, and it became fairly apparent that Sneathy had stood on it whenthe rope was about his neck--his muddy footprint was plain to see; themud was not smeared about, you see, as it probably would have been ifhe had been stood there forcibly and pushed off. It was a simple, clearfootprint--another hint at suicide.
"But then arose the objection that you mentioned yourself. Plainly thebrothers Foster were following Sneathy, and came this way. Therefore, ifhe hanged himself before they arrived, it would seem that they must havecome across the body. But now I examined the body itself. There was mudon the knees, and clinging to one knee was a small leaf. It was a leafcorresponding to those on the bush behind the tree, and it was not adead leaf, so must have been just detached.
"After my examination of the body I went to the bush, and there, in thethick of it, were, for me, sufficiently distinct knee-marks, in one ofwhich the knee had crushed a spray of the bush against the ground, andfrom that spray a leaf was missing. Behind the knee-marks were theindentations of boot-toes in the soft, bare earth under the bush, andthus the thing was plain. The poor lunatic had come in sight of thedangling rope, and the temptation to suicide was irresistible. To peoplein a deranged state of mind the mere sight of the means ofself-destruction is often a temptation impossible to withstand. But atthat moment he must have heard the steps--probably the voices--of thebrothers behind him on the winding path. He immediately hid in the bushtill they had passed. It is probable that seeing who the men were, andconjecturing that they were following him--thinking also, perhaps, ofthings that had occurred between them and himself--his inclination toself-destruction became completely ungovernable, with the result thatyou saw.
"But before I inspected the bush I noticed one or two more things aboutthe body. You remember I inquired if either of the brothers Foster wasleft-handed, and was assured that neither was. But clearly the hand hadbeen cut off by a left-handed man, with a large, sharply pointed knife.For well away to the _right_ of where the wrist had hung the knife-pointhad made a tiny triangular rent in the coat, so that the hand must havebeen held in the mutilator's right hand, while he used the knife withhis left--clearly a left-handed man.
"But most important of all about the body was the jagged hair over theright ear. Everywhere else the hair was well cut and orderly--here itseemed as though a good piece had been, so to speak, _sawn_ off. Whatcould anybody want with a dead man's right hand and certain locks of hishair? Then it struck me suddenly--the man was hanged; it was the Hand ofGlory!
"Then you will remember I went, at your request, to see the footprintsof the Fosters on the part of the path _past_ the watercourse. Hereagain it was muddy in the middle, and the two brothers had walked as farapart as before, although nobody had walked between them. A final proof,if one were needed, of my theory as to the three lines of footprints.
"Now I was to consider how to get at the man who had taken his hand. Heshould be punished for the mutilation, but beyond that he would berequired as a witness. Now all the foot-tracks in the vicinity had beenaccounted for. There were those of the brothers and of Sneathy, which wehave been speaking of; those of the rustics looking on, which, however,stopped a little way off, and did not interfere with our sphere ofobservation; those of your man, who had cut straight through the woodwhen he first saw the body, and had come back the same way with you; andour own, which we had been careful to keep away from the others.Consequently there was _no_ track of the man who had cut off the hand;therefore it was certain that he must have come along the hard gravel bythe watercourse, for that was the only possible path which would nottell the tale. Indeed, it seemed quite a likely path through the woodfor a passenger to take, coming from the high ground by the Shoppertonroad.
"Brett and I left you and traversed the watercourse, both up and down.We found a footprint at the top, left lately by a man with a brokenshoe. Right down to the bottom of the watercourse where it emerged fromthe wood there was no sign on either side of this man having left thegravel. (Where the body was, as you will remember, he would simply havestepped off the gravel on to the grass, which I thought it useless toexamine, as I have explained.) But at the bottom, by the lane, thefootprint appeared again.
"This then was the direction in which I was to search for a left-handedman with a broken-soled shoe, probably a gipsy--and most probably aforeign gipsy--because a foreign gipsy would be the most likely still tohold the belief in the Hand of Glory. I conjectured the man to be astraggler from a band of gipsies--one who probably had got behind thecaravan and had made a short cut across the wood after it; so at the endof the lane I looked for a _patrin_. This is a sign that gipsies leaveto guide stragglers following up. Sometimes it is a heap of dead leaves,sometimes a few stones, sometimes a mark on the ground, but more usuallya couple of twigs crossed, with the longer twig pointing the road.
"Guided by these _patrins_ we came in the end on the gipsy camp just asit was settling down for the night. We made ourselves agreeable (asBrett will probably describe to you better than I can), we left them,and after they had got to sleep we came back and watched for thegentleman who is now in the lock-up. He would, of course, seize thefirst opportunity of treating his ghastly trophy in the prescribed way,and I guessed he would choose midnight, for that is the time thesuperstition teaches that the hand should be prepared. We made a fewsmall preparations, collared him, and now you've got him. And I shouldthink the sooner you let the brothers Foster go the better."
"But why didn't you tell me all the conclusions you had arrived at atthe time?" asked Mr. Hardwick.
"Well, really," Hewitt replied, with a quiet smile, "you were sopositive, and some of the traces I relied on were so small, that itwould probably have meant a long argument and a loss of time. But morethan that, confess, if I had told you bluntly that Sneathy's hand hadbeen taken away to make a mediaeval charm to enable a thief to passthrough a locked door and steal plate calmly under the owner's nose,what _would_ you have said?"
"Well, well, perhaps I _should_ have been a little sceptical.Appearances combined so completely to point to the Fosters as murderersthat any other explanation almost would have seemed unlikely to me, and_that_--well no, I confess, I shouldn't have believed in it. But it is astartling thing to find such superstitions alive now-a-days."
"Yes, perhaps it is. Yet we find survivals of the sort very frequently.The Wallachians, however, are horribly superstitious still--the gipsiesamong them are
, of course, worse. Don't you remember the case reported afew months ago, in which a child was drowned as a sacrifice in Wallachiain order to bring rain? And that was not done by gipsies either. Even inEngland, as late as 1865, a poor paralysed Frenchman was killed by being'swum' for witchcraft--that was in Essex. And less atrocious cases ofbelief in wizardry occur again and again even now."
Then Mr. Hardwick and my uncle fell into a discussion as to how thegipsy in the lock-up could be legally punished. Mr. Hardwick thought itshould be treated as a theft of a portion of a dead body, but my unclefancied there was a penalty for mutilation of a dead body _per se_,though he could not point to the statute. As it happened, however, theywere saved the trouble of arriving at a decision, for in the morning hewas discovered to have escaped. He had been left, of course, with freehands, and had occupied the night in wrenching out the bars at the topof the back wall of the little prison-shed (it had stood on the greenfor a hundred and fifty years) and climbing out. He was not found again,and a month or two later the Foster family left the district entirely.