CHAPTER XIV
THE STORM
On the morrow rain fell. At first the village regarded the break in theweather as a thunderstorm, and harvesters looked to an early resumptionof work. "A sup o' wet'll do nowt any harm," they said. But a steadilydeclining "glass" and a continuous downpour that lost nothing in volumeas the day wore caused increasing headshakes, anxious frowns, revilingsnot a few of the fickle elements.
The moorland becks became raging torrents. The gorged river rose untilall the low-lying land was flooded, hundreds of pounds' worth of corn instook swept away, and all standing crops were damaged to an enormousextent. Cattle, sheep, poultry, even a horse or two, were caught by therushing waters and drowned. A bridge became blocked by floating debrisand crumbled before the flood. Three men were standing on the structure,idly watching the articles whirling past in the eddies; one, given asecond's firm footing, jumped for dear life and saved himself; thebodies of the others were found, many days afterwards, jammed againststakes placed in the stream a mile lower down to prevent fish poachersfrom netting an open reach.
This deluge, if indeed aught else were needed, wrecked the Feast. Everybooth was dismantled, each wagon and caravan packed. The van dwellersonly ceased their labors when all was in readiness for a move to thenext fair ground; the Elmsdale week, usually a bright spot in theirmigratory calendar, was marked this year with absolute loss. At thebest, and in few instances, it yielded a bare payment of expenses.
Farmers, of course, toiled early and late to avert further disaster.Stock were driven from pastures where danger threatened; cut corn wasrescued in the hope that the next day's sun might dry it; choked ditcheswere raked with long hoes to permit the water to flow off.
At last, when night fell, and the rain diminished to a thin drizzle,though the barometer gave no promise of improvement, men gathered in thevillage street and began comparing notes. Everyone had suffered in somedegree; even the shopkeepers and private residents complained of ruinedgoods, gardens rooted up, houses invaded by the all-pervading floods.
But the farmers endured the greatest damage. Some had lost theirhalf-year's rent, many would be faced with privation and bankruptcy.Thrice fortunate now were the men with capital--those who could lookforward with equanimity to another season when the wanton havocinflicted by this wild raging of the waters should be recouped.
John Bolland, protected by an oilskin coat, crossed the road between thestockyard and the White House about eight o'clock.
"Eh, Mr. Bollan', but this is a sad day's wark," said a friend whoencountered him.
"Ah, it's bad, very bad, an' likely te be worse," replied John, liftinghis bent head and casting a weather-wise glance over the northerly moor.
"I've lost t' best part o' six acres o' wuts," (oats) growled hisneighbor. "It's hard to know what spite there was in t' clouds te bursti' that way."
"Times an' seasons aren't i' man's hands," was the quiet answer."There'd be ill deed if sunshine an' storm were settled by voates, likea county-council election."
"Mebbe, and mebbe nut," cried the other testily. "'Tis easy to leaveivvrything te Providence when yer money's mostly i' stock. Mine happenste be i' crops."
"An' if mine were i' crops, Mr. Pattison, I sud still thry te desarvewell o' Providence."
This shrewd thrust evoked no wrath from Pattison, who was not achapel-goer.
"Gosh!" he laughed, "some folks are lucky. They pile up riches both i'this wulld an' t' wulld te come. Hooivver, we won't argy. Hev ye heerdt' news fra' te t' 'Black Lion'?"
"Aboot poor George Pickerin'? Noa. I've bin ower thrang i' t' cow-byre."
"He's married, an' med his will. Betsy is Mrs. Pickerin' noo. But she'llbe a widdy afore t' mornin'."
"Is he as bad as all that?"
"Sinkin' fast, they tell me. He kep' up, like the game 'un he allus was,until Mr. Croft left him alone wi' his wife. Then he fell away te nowt.He's ravin', I hear."
"Croft! I thowt Stockwell looked efther his affairs."
"Right enough! But Stockwell's ya (one) trustee, Mr. Herbert's t' other.So Croft had te act."
"Well, I'm rale sorry for t' poor chap. He's coom tiv a bad end."
"Ye'll be t' foreman o' t' jury, most like?"
"Noa. I'll be spared that job. Martin is a witness, more's t' pity.Good-night, Mr. Pattison. It'll hu't none if y' are minded te offer up aprayer for betther weather."
But the prayers of many just men did not avail to save Elmsdale thatnight. After a brief respite, the storm came on again with gustymalevolence. Black despair sat by many a fireside, and in no place wasits grim visage seen more plainly than in the bedroom where GeorgePickering died.
Dr. MacGregor watched the fitful flickering of the strong man's life,until, at last, he led the afflicted wife from the room and consignedher to the care of her weeping sister and the hardly less sorrowfullandlady.
At the foot of the stairs were waiting P. C. Benson and the reporter ofthe _Messenger_.
"It is all over," said the doctor. "He died at a quarter past ten."
"The same hour that he was--wounded," commented the reporter. "What wasthe precise cause of death?"
"Failure of the heart's action. It was a merciful release. Otherwise, hemight have survived for days and suffered greatly."
The policeman adjusted his cape and lowered his chin-strap.
"I mun start for Nottonby," he said. "T' inquest'll likely be oppennedo' Satherday at two o'clock, doctor."
"Yes. By the way, Benson, you can tell Mr. Jonas that the county analystand I are ready with our evidence. There is no need for an adjournment,unless the police require it."
The constable saluted and set off on a lonely tramp through the rain. Hecrossed the footbridge over the beck--the water was nearly level withthe stout planks.
"I haven't seen a wilder night for monny a year," he muttered. "There'llbe a nice how-d'ye-do if t' brig is gone afore daylight."
He trudged the four miles to Nottonby. Nearing the outskirts of thesmall market town, he was startled by finding the body of a man lyingface down in the roadway. The pelting gale had extinguished his lamp. Hemanaged to turn the prostrate form and raise the man's head. Then, afterseveral failures, he induced a match to flare for a second. One glancesufficed.
"Rabbit Jack!" he growled. "And blind as a bat! Get up, ye drunkenswine. 'Twould be sarvin' ye right te lave ye i' the road until ye wererunned over or caught yer death o' cold."
From the manner of P. C. Benson's language it may be inferred that hisactions were not characterized by extreme gentleness. He managed toshake the poacher into semi-consciousness. Rabbit Jack, wobbling on hisfeet, lurched against the policeman.
"Hello, ole fell', coom along wi' me," he mumbled amiably. "Nivver mindt' brass. I've got plenty. Good soart, George Pickerin'. Gimme me asov', 'e did. Fo-or, 'e's a jolly good feller----"
A further shaking was disastrous. He collapsed again. The perplexedpoliceman noted a haymew behind a neighboring gate. He dragged thenondescript thither by the scruff of his neck and threw him on the leeside of the shelter.
"He'll be sober by mornin'," he thought. "I hev overmuch thrubble abootte tew mysen wi' this varmint."
And so ended the first of the dead man's bequests.
The gathering of a jury in a country village for an important inquestlike that occasioned by George Pickering's death is a solemn function.Care is exercised in empaneling men of repute, and, in the presentinstance, several prominent farmers were debarred from service becausetheir children would be called as witnesses.
The inquest was held, by permission, in the National schoolhouse. Noroom in the inn would accommodate a tithe of the people who wished toattend. Many journalists put in an appearance, the _Messenger_reporter's paragraphs having attracted widespread attention.
It was noteworthy, too, that Superintendent Jonas did not conduct thecase for the police. He obtained the aid of a solicitor, Mr. Dane, withwhom the coroner, Dr. Magnus, drove from Nottonby in a closed carriage,for the ra
in had not ceased, save during very brief intervals, since theoutbreak on Thursday morning.
The jury, having been sworn, elected Mr. Webster, grocer, as theirforeman, and proceeded to view the body. When they reassembled in theschoolroom it was seen that Betsy, now Mrs. Pickering, was seated nexther sister. With them were two old people whom a few persons presentrecognized as the girls' parents, and by Betsy's side was Mr. Stockwell.Among the crowd of witnesses were Martin, Frank and ErnestBeckett-Smythe, and Angele.
The mortification, the angry dismay of Mrs. Saumarez when her daughterwas warned to attend the inquest may well be imagined. The police are norespecters of persons, and P. C. Benson, of course, ascertained easilythe name of the girl concerning whom Martin and young Beckett-Smythefought on the eventful night. She might be an important witness, so hermother was told to send her to the court.
Mrs. Saumarez disdained to accompany the girl in person, and Francoisewas deputed to act as convoy. The Normandy nurse's white linen bandsoffered a quaint contrast to the black robes worn by the other women andgave material for a descriptive sentence to every journalist in theroom.
Mr. Beckett-Smythe, the vicar, Dr. MacGregor, and the county analystoccupied chairs beside the Coroner. The latter gentleman described thenature of the inquiry with businesslike brevity, committing himself tono statements save those that were obvious. When he concluded, Mr. Danerose.
"I appear for the police," he said.
"And I," said Mr. Stockwell, "am here to watch the interests of Mrs.Pickering, having received her husband's written instructions to thateffect."
A deep hush fell on the packed assembly. The curious nature of theannouncement was a surprise in itself. The reporters' pencils were busy,and the Coroner adjusted his spectacles.
"The written instructions of the dead man?" he exclaimed.
"Yes, sir. My friend, my lifelong friend, Mr. George Pickering, was buttoo well aware of the fate that threatened him. I have here a letter,written and signed by him on Thursday morning. With your permission, Iwill read it."
"I object," cried Mr. Dane.
"On what grounds?" asked the Coroner.
"Such a letter may have a prejudicial effect on the minds of the jury.They are here to determine, with your direction, a verdict to be arrivedat on certain evidence. This letter cannot be regarded as evidence."
Mr. Stockwell shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not press the point," he said. "I fail to see any harm in showinga husband's anxiety that his wife should be cleared of absurdimputations."
Mr. Dane reddened.
"I consider that a highly improper remark," he cried.
The other only smiled. He had won the first round. The jury knew whatthe letter contained, and he had placed the case for the police in anunfavorable light.
The first witness, Pickering's farm bailiff, gave formal evidence ofidentity.
Then the Coroner read the dead man's deposition, which was attested bythe local justice of the peace. Dr. Magnus rendered the documentimpressively. Its concluding appeal to the Deity turned all eyes onBetsy. She was pale, but composed. Since her husband's death she hadcried but little. Her mute grief rendered her beautiful. Sorrow hadgiven dignity to a pretty face. She was so white, so unmoved outwardly,that she resembled a clothed statue. Kitty wept quietly all the time,but Betsy sat like one in a dream.
"Catherine Thwaites," said the Coroner's officer, and Kitty was led byMr. Jones to the witness stand. The girl's evidence, punctuated bysobs, was practically a resume of Pickering's sworn statement.
From Mr. Dane's attitude it was apparent that he regarded this witnessas untruthful.
"Of course," he said, with quiet satire in word and look, "as Mr.Pickering impaled himself on a fork, you did not see your sister plungea knife into his breast?"
"No, sir."
"Nor did you run down the garden shrieking: 'Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you'vekilled him.' You did not cry 'Murder, murder! Come, someone, for God'ssake'?"
"Yes, sir; I did."
This unexpected admission puzzled the solicitor. He darted a sharp sideglance at Stockwell, but the latter was busy scribbling notes. Everypulse in court quickened.
"Oh, you did, eh? But why charge your sister with a crime you did notsee her commit?"
"Because she had a knife in her hand, and I saw Mr. Pickering staggeracross the garden and fall."
"In what direction did he stagger?"
"Away from the stackyard hedge."
"This is a serious matter. You are on your oath, and there is such athing as being an accessory after----"
Up sprang Stockwell.
"I protest most strongly against this witness being threatened," heshouted.
"I think Mr. Dane is entitled to warn the witness against falsetestimony," said the Coroner. "Of course, he knows the graveresponsibility attached to such insinuations."
Mr. Dane waved an emphatic hand.
"I require no threats," he said. "I have evidence in plenty. Do youswear that Mr. Pickering did not lurch forward from beneath the peartree at the foot of the garden after being stabbed by your sister, whosurprised him in your arms, or you in his arms? It is the same thing."
"I do," was the prompt answer.
The lawyer sat down, shrugging his shoulders.
"Any questions to put to the witness, Mr. Stockwell?" said the Coroner.
"No, sir. I regard her evidence as quite clear."
"Will you--er--does your client Mrs. Pickering wish to give evidence?"
"My client--she is not my client of her own volition, but by thedefinite instructions of her dead husband--will certainly give evidence.May I express the hope that my learned friend will not deal with her tooharshly? She is hardly in a fit state to appear here to-day."
Mr. Dane smiled cynically, but made no reply. He declined to help hisadversary's adroit maneuvers by fiery opposition, though again had Mr.Stockwell succeeded in playing a trump card.
Betsy was duly warned by the Coroner that she might be charged with thewilful murder of George Pickering, notwithstanding the sworn depositionread in court. She could exercise her own judgment as to whether or notshe would offer testimony, but anything she said would be taken down inwriting, and might be used as evidence against her.
She never raised her eyes. Not even those terrible words, "wilfulmurder," had power to move her. She stood like an automaton, and seemedto await permission to speak.
"Now, Mrs. Pickering," said Dr. Magnus, "tell us, in your own words,what happened."
She began her story. No one could fail to perceive that she was recitinga narrative learnt by heart. She used no words in the vernacular. Allwas good English, coherent, simple, straightforward. On the Mondaymorning, she said, she received a letter at Hereford from Fred Marshall,ostler at the "Black Lion Hotel."
"Have you that letter?" asked the Coroner.
"Yes," interposed Mr. Stockwell. "Here it is."
He handed forward a document. A buzz of whispered comment arose. Incompliance with Dr. Magnus's request, Betsy identified it listlessly.Then it was read aloud. Apart from mistakes in spelling, it ran asfollows:
"Dear Miss Thwaites.--This is to let you know that George Pickering is carrying on with your sister Kitty. He has promised to meet her here on Monday. He has engaged a bedroom here. You ought to come and stop it. I inclose P.O. for one pound toward your fare.--Yours truly, Fred Marshall, groom, 'Black Lion,' Elmsdale."
The fact that this meddlesome personage had sent Betsy her railway farebecame known now for the first time. A hiss writhed through the court.
"Silence!" yelled a police sergeant, glaring around with steely eyes.
"There must be no demonstrations of any sort here," said the Coronersternly. "Well, Mrs. Pickering, you traveled to Elmsdale?"
"Yes."
"With what purpose in view?"
"George had promised to marry me. Kitty knew this quite well. I thoughtthat my presence would put an end to any courtship that was going on. Itwa
s very wrong."
"None will dispute that. But I prefer not to question you. Tell us yourown story."
"I traveled all day," she recommenced, "and reached Elmsdale station bythe last train. I was very tired. At the door of the inn I met FredMarshall. He was waiting, I suppose. He told me George and Kitty were atthe bottom of the garden."
A quiver ran through the audience, but the police sergeant was watching,and they feared expulsion.
"He said they had been there ten minutes. I ran through the hotelkitchen. On a table was lying a long knife near a dish of grouse. Ipicked it up, hardly knowing what I was doing, and went into the garden.When I was halfway down Kitty saw me and screamed. George turned roundand backed away toward the middle hedge. I remember cryingout--some--things--but I do not--know--what I said."
She swayed slightly, and everyone thought she was about to faint. Butshe clutched the back of a chair and steadied herself. Mr. Jones offeredher a glass of water, but she refused it.
"I can go on," she said bravely.
And she persevered to the end, substantially repeating her sister'sevidence.
When Mr. Dane rose to cross-examine, the silence in court was appalling.The girl's parents were pallid with fear. Kitty sat spellbound. Mr.Stockwell pushed his papers away and gazed fixedly at his client.
"Why did you pick up the knife, Mrs. Pickering?" was the first question.
"I think--I am almost sure--I intended to strike my sister with it."
This was another bombshell. Mr. Dane moved uneasily on his feet.
"Your sister!" he repeated in amazement.
"Yes. She was aware of my circumstances. What right had she to beflirting with my promised husband?"
"Hum! You have forgiven her since, no doubt?"
"I forgave her then, when I regained my senses. She was actingthoughtlessly. I believe that George and she went into the garden onlyto spite Fred Marshall."
Mr. Dane shook his head.
"So, if we accept your statement, Mrs. Pickering, you harmed no one withthe knife except yourself?"
"That is so."
He seemed to hesitate a moment, but seemingly made up his mind to leavethe evidence where it stood.
"I shall not detain you long," said Mr. Stockwell when his legalopponent desisted from further cross-examination. "You were married toMr. Pickering on Thursday morning by special license?"
"Yes."
"He had executed a marriage settlement securing you L400 a year forlife?"
"Yes."
"And, after the accident, you remained with him until he died?"
"Yes--God help me!"
"Thank you. That is all."
"Just one moment," interposed the Coroner. "Were you previouslyacquainted with this man, Marshall, the groom?"
"No, sir. I saw him for the first time in my life when he met me at thehotel door and asked me if I was Miss Thwaites."
"How did he obtain your Hereford address? It appears to be given in fullon the envelope."
"I don't know, sir."
Fred Marshall was the next witness. He was sober and exceedinglynervous. He had been made aware during the past week that public opinioncondemned him utterly. His old cronies refused to drink with him. Mrs.Atkinson had dismissed him; he was a pariah, an outcast, in the village.
His evidence consisted of a disconnected series of insinuations againstKitty's character, interlarded with protests that he meant no harm. Mr.Stockwell showed him scant mercy.
"You say you saw Mrs. Pickering, or Betsy Thwaites, as she was at thattime, seize a knife from the table?"
"I did."
"What did you think she meant to do with it?"
"What she did do--stick George Pickerin'. I heerd her bawlin' that ootboth afore an' efther."
The man was desperate. In his own parlance, he might as well be hangedfor a sheep as a lamb, and he would spare no one.
"Oh, indeed! You knew she intended to commit murder?"
"I thowt so."
"Then why did you not follow her?"
"I was skeered."
"What! Afraid of a weak woman?"
"Well, I didn't give a damn if she did stab him! There, ye hev itstraight!"
Mr. Stockwell turned to Mr. Dane.
"If you are looking for accessories in this trumped-up case, you haveone ready to hand," he exclaimed.
"You must be careful what you are saying, Marshall," observed theCoroner severely. "And moderate your language, too. This court is not astable."
"He shouldn't badger me," cried the witness in sullen anger.
"I'll treat you with great tenderness," said Mr. Stockwell suavely, anda general smile relieved the tension.
"How did you obtain Miss Thwaites's address at Hereford?"
No answer.
"Come, now. Where are your wits? Will you accuse me of badgering you, ifI suggest that you stole a letter from Kitty Thwaites's pocket?"
"I didn't steal it. It was in a frock of hers, hangin' in her bedroom."
"You are most obliging. And the sovereign you sent her? Did you, by anychance, borrow it from Mrs. Atkinson?"
"Frae Mrs. Atkinson? Wheae said that?"
"Oh, I mean without her knowledge, of course. From Mrs. Atkinson's till,I should have said."
The chance shot went home. The miserable groom growled a denial, but noone believed him. Quite satisfied that he had destroyed the man'scredibility, Mr. Stockwell sat down.
"Martin Court Bolland!" said the Coroner's officer, and a wave ofrenewed interest galvanized the court. Mr. Dane arranged his papers andlooked around with the air of one who says:
"Now we shall hear the truth of this business."
Martin came forward. It chanced that the first pair of eyes heencountered were Angele's. The girl was gazing at him with a spitefulintensity he could not understand. He did not know then of the painfulexpose which took place at The Elms when Mrs. Saumarez learnt on thepreceding day that her daughter was a leading figure among the childrenin the "Black Lion" yard on the night of the tragedy.
Angele blamed Martin for having betrayed her to the authorities. She didnot know how resolutely he had declined to mention her name; he loomedlarge in her mind, to the exclusion of the others.
She regarded him now with a venomous malice all the more bitter becauseof the ultra-friendly relations she had forced on him.
He looked at her with genuine astonishment. She reminded him of thewildcat he choked to death in Thor ghyll. But he had to collect hiswandering faculties, for the Coroner was speaking.