CHAPTER X
THE BROM-WATER MYSTERY
It is wonderful how soon a thing is forgotten, or at least put on ashelf in people's memories. Poor Harry Foster, for example! There wasa man now--a man murdered in the discharge of his duty, if ever a manwas. And after a month or two another man was travelling the same roadwith a new mail cart and new sacks of letters, as quiet as water goingdown a mill-lade. The only difference was that he started a whilelater in the morning than poor Harry, after it was daylight, in fact,so that the Bewick people had to wait, often till midday, before theygot their letters.
And when they made complaint to the Postmaster-General, or some otherbig-wig, he up and said to them, "You Bewickers, it is open to you tochoose one of yourselves to bring up the mails from Breckonside,running the risk of Harry Foster's fate and providing a sufficientguarantee for any loss the post office run by Her Royal High Majestymay sustain."
Something like that he said. But no Bewicker offered. Of coursenot--why, they had skin creeps at the very thought.
"So," says the post official big-wig, "you Bewick cowards, be goodenough to shut up and take your letters when they are sent out to you."
Still there were people who kept thinking about poor Harry for allthat. And I was one of them. Elsie did not seem to care so much, orat least so long. Did you never observe that you can't keep a girllong interested in the same thing, unless you keep on telling her allthe time how much prettier she is getting to look? But I did not knoweven that much, not then. I was just mortal green--green as father'sspare pasture field after three days' steady rain and one of Maysunshine. And, indeed, to tell the truth outright, I thoughtaltogether too much at that time about people, and too little about myLatin and Greek prose, as Mr. Mustard, who was a good classic himself,often told me. He said I should rue it. But I can't say I have evergone as far as that. Not to date, anyway. Perhaps I may some day,when I start reading Latin to pass the time.
The adventure grew more interesting to me after the policeman anddetectives had one by one all cleared off. The affair was "classed,"as the French say in their crime books--I learned my French out ofthese, and a jolly easy way, too--that is, the police were not going todo anything more in the matter, unless something fresh turned up. Andit would have to be something mighty fresh, too, to move them. Theyhad all got so sick of the whole business.
There was just one thing that kept me back. That was, I was nearlysure that Elsie's grandfather had something to do with the whole seriesof crimes of which the death of poor Harry was only the last and themost senseless. Perhaps not Mr. Stennis directly, but somebody aboutDeep Moat Grange. So, of course, I did not want to bring Elsie into itif I could help it. Because if her grandfather was a murderer, and ifall the missing drovers and absconding cattle dealers were laid to hisaccount, and he hanged for it, it would be clearly impossible for Elsieto go on living with Nance Edgar at the Bridge End. And as I was notyet ready to make other arrangements for her (besides being mortallyafraid of the curate), I said nothing to any one--least of all to Elsieherself.
I think I had suspected everybody for miles round in turn--from Mr.Codling the policeman to the vicar himself. As for poor Mr. Ball, Ihad him so completely under observation, and was so sure of his guilt,that when the unfortunate bailiff went out only to fodder the cattle, Ifollowed stealthily in his footsteps, sure that the secret of themystery lay in the range of cattle sheds or under the pigs' feedingtroughs. In the end I only managed to get a welting from father forcoming home all muddy from head to foot--and not pleasant mud at that.
But really I did not mind. I was always glad when I got home safe.Now I know that I was taking my life in my hands every minute. Eventhen I had glimmerings of the fact. The folks of Breckonside mightsay, as they always did, that the killing of poor Harry was the work ofsome chance tramps, who would be far away by the next morning. Butputting everything together, just as Sherlock Holmes used to do, Icouldn't make it out at all. I had his spirit, but not his luck--no,not by any means his luck.
This, however, was what I made out. Harry had jogged on till he metwith some one whom he knew, that is, almost immediately after he partedwith Davie Elshiner, the poacher. He had talked, parleyed, and thenaccepted company. Then some one of these, sitting on the back seat ofthe dog cart, had covered up his mouth and butchered him most foully.After that no more was to be learned. The light vehicle which hadbounded from side to side of the narrow drove-road had certainly beenempty. I am no Sherlock Holmes, but my father and I know about horsesand local conveyances. And we could see by the rebounding, the onewheel climbing the bank, and the other sinking in the slough, that ifany one had been inside--nay any _thing_, the contents of the cart, bethey what they would, must have been emptied out.
But Harry, the mail bags, even the parcels for Bewick, had completelydisappeared. Nothing except the empty cart and the broad plane-treeleaves were ever seen again. It seemed so simple a thing to trace--adead body, accounted no easy thing to make away with evenprofessionally, a dozen bags of letters--many with negotiable values,of which the issuing bank had, luckily, reserved the numbers--tobaccoin tins, cigarettes in boxes, sweets, sugar in cones, even a Stiltoncheese for the old bachelor, Major Templand (retired), who cried outmore about the loss of his Welsh rabbit than all the others puttogether. Clues--there were balls and wads of clues! Only, none ofthem led anywhere. Neither did the woods, through which there was notrack of anything previous to those made by Mr. Stennis's pony thefollowing day. Nothing either way along the road. No, I could put myhand on nothing and nobody. And I gave it up at last, surenevertheless that it was somewhere about the house of Deep Moat thatthe solution must be looked for.
And, indeed, some light, such as it was, came from the last quarterfrom which it could be expected.
Mr. Ablethorpe arrived one fine summer afternoon at our place inBreckonside. I was playing in the backyard, half a dozen dogs tumblingover me. It had been intended that I should go out that afternoon witha van, but somehow one of the men had got back earlier from his morninground, and had been re-dispatched as more trustworthy. Also idlenessin a boy was bad enough, but in a man paid weekly wages--insupportable.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Yarrow," cried the curate in his hearty voice,loud but not a bit preachy--I give him that due--"can I have your Joean hour or two?"
"Have him and keep him, the lazy whelp," cried my father from the backshop, where he was busy writing up his books in his shirt sleeves.Then, laying down his pen where it would not roll over the page (whichalways roused him to crisply expressed anger), he came out to meet theyoung curate from the neighbouring parish of Breckonton. Upper or OverBreckonton was still more dependent on my father than my nativeBreckonside. There were other ways of getting supplies at Breckonside,at least for a time. But Over Breckonton was wholly dependent on myfather's vans, carrier's carts, and general delivery of goods.
They shook hands with some heartiness. For though my father had astanding quarrel with both vicars he was always on the best of termswith the curates.
"What might you want him for, Mr. Ablethorpe?"
"Oh," said Mr. Ablethorpe, "the farmers are busy with their moor hay,you see, and I thought if Joe and I----"
"Say no more," cried my father, "you shall have him. And if he doesnot work like a good 'un, you tell it to me, that's all! I see now whythe farmers of your parish call you the 'Hayfork' Minister!"
"Oh, they call me that, do they?" said the curate, not at alldisguising his pleasure in the nickname, "well, I'm no great preacher,you know. So it is as well to make oneself of use some way!"
"That's right--that's right," cried my father, "I hope you will put alittle of that teaching into the lazy bones of my young whelp. Joe!Ah, Joe, you villain! Come here! Don't skulk!"
As my father did really know where I was (and also because I was anobedient boy with a reverence for the fifth commandment of theDecalogue), I came immediately, greatly to the disappointment o
f thedogs, who thought themselves in for a good long romp. I found Mr.Ablethorpe explaining to my father that we were just going to call inat Brom Common Farm, to give Caleb Fergusson a lift with his hay--thatCaleb was an old man, and would be the better of the assistance of twopairs of sturdy arms. Furthermore, it would keep Joe in training forthe next cricket match--Breckonton and District _v._ Upper DeneHospital it was.
"I don't know exactly how long we shall be, I tell you frankly," saidthe curate. "If old Caleb has nearly finished, Joe and I may take awalk before coming home. It won't do to have him getting slack, lyingabout the yard like this."
"That's all right," said my father, who was aching to get back to hisbooks, and wished nothing better than to have me taken off his hands,"all serene! Don't you fret, Mr. Ablethorpe. Joe will be in goodkeeping along of you. I wish I could say as much of him always. He isa wandering, good-for-nothing wretch!"
That, you see, was my father's way of talking. He didn't mean anythingby it. But the words just flowed naturally from him, and he could nomore help abusing me, or, indeed, any of his men, than taking a snoozewhen sleepy in the afternoon.
The curate, who knew that barking keeps the teeth open and so preventsbiting, simply laughed and said, "Well, come along, Joe! You are undermy care and authority for this day, at any rate."
As for me, I was glad enough. For, but for Elsie, and the thought ofmy going to college in the late autumn, I liked Mr. Ablethorpe verywell, as, for that matter, did nearly every one who knew him--excepthis vicar, who did not appreciate a young man being so popular;"stealing the hearts of his congregation from him," as he expressed it.
I was still gladder, because I knew that that afternoon there was notthe least chance of seeing Elsie. She had gone up to read Latin andpiles of hard books with Miss Martha Mustard, the dominie's sister, whowas said to be far more learned even than he. At any rate, though notwhat you would call "honeysuckle sweet," she had at least a far bettertemper.
The curate and I set out. It was the selfsame road that Elsie and Ihad taken earlier in the year, on the May morning when we were thefirst to look inside poor Harry Foster's blood-stained mail cart.
But now the leaves were turning and drying, already brown at the edges,and splotched with yellow and green along the webbing inside. Soon ourfeet were on the heather, and I watched the curate to see if he wouldturn his head to take a look across at the little creeper-hidden cot atthe Bridge End, where Elsie was not. But either he was on his guard,or he was as well aware as I myself of her absence. At any rate henever turned his head, but swung along with a jolly hillman's stridewhich it took me all my pith and length of limb to keep pace with.
And as we went he improved the occasion. Not like a common minister,who asks you if you have been a good boy and always tell the truth.Silly questions, as if the man had never been a boy himself!
But the curate said: "Now, look here, you are getting out of the way ofgoing to church, just because of your father's silly quarrel with thevicar of your parish. That may be well enough for your father. He isa grown man, and can judge about these things as well as you or I. Butit is different with a young fellow. He gets into bad habits. Oh,yes, I know you go sometimes to the Presbyterian chapel" (he actuallyused the word chapel!), "but you do that because Miss Stennis is yourfriend, and though, of course, anything is better than nothing----"
"It's as good as----" I was beginning hotly, when he interrupted me.
"Yes, yes," he cried hastily, "of course that is all right for thosewho are in it. But you are a Churchman and the son of a Churchman._I_ don't go hunting Presbyterians all over two parishes. But when Isee a Churchman, and the son of a Churchman, in danger ofdrifting--well, I step over the line of my duty and speak my mind."
I answered nothing, for after all clergymen have a monopoly of thatkind of talk. But I kept my wits about me. I thought he was going toask me to come regularly to his church so as to keep me away fromElsie, but not a bit of him.
"What I want you to promise me is that when you go to Edinburgh youwill lose no time in looking up a friend of mine, Harry Ryan, who has achurch on the South Side. If you don't he will look you up. But Iwant you to go, on the principle of one volunteer being worth twopressed men. More than that, it will do you good, and if you have leftany friends here in Breckonside they will, I am sure, be glad that youare being looked after a bit. I don't mean that your liberty will beinterfered with in the least. It won't be interfered with half enoughin these lecturing barrack-rooms they call Scotch universities. Butany way, don't be afraid. Harry Ryan will see you through."
Well, I could say no less than that I would do as he said. And when Iheard that Mr. Ryan was a good "cover," as well as a safe bat andchange bowler, I thought I would risk it. Afterwards I found it wouldhave been one of the best things I could do. Though, mind you, for allthat there may have been some thought of Elsie in the back of Mr.Ablethorpe's mind. For there were heaps and heaps of pretty girls atMr. Ryan's church, as I found out when I visited the city--all sorts,swell girls, villa girls, and shop girls (these last the prettiest).And he may have thought that among so many I would be almost certain toforget Elsie. He _may_, I say. I don't know that he did. Only--Ishould in his place.
Well, my curate, he went on like sticks a-breaking all about thedifference between church and chapel, and how, though the Presbyterianswere by law established in Scotland, they were only chapel people afterall. And that there was only one Church, properly so called. Oh, alot like that. And he got quite hot about it, because he had been inScotland himself, and had been called a Dissenter by the parishminister. He had never got over this, and even now the remembrance ofit made him ruffle up his hair like tossing moist meadow hay. Then hewould start in to explain about it all over again.
I didn't mind, for I thought: "The more he cares for things like that'Postolic Succession and 'Down with John Knox,' the less time will hehave for meandering about Elsie." So I was pleased all right with whathe said, though I didn't listen much. However, I promised to go to hisfriend's church in Edinburgh, and not to any of the Presbyterian"schism-shops." That was what he called them, for he pitched into themproper. Then he was as pleased as Punch, and looked upon me with asort of air as if he owned me. I bet he took me for a brand pluckedfrom the Presbyterian burning. You see, on the border of the twocountries it is different from anywhere else. It is like drawing achalk line, and both sides, Piskies and Presbies, spar up to it. Theyare always letting out at each other, while thirty miles inland theydon't care a jujube about the matter, and even play golf together andsmoke pipes on the sly after sermon. This is truth, and you can put itbetween the leaves of the Holy Book and swear on it.
Well, I told the curate I would go to his friend Harry Ryan'schurch--St. James the Less was the name of it. But I didn't say _howoften_ I would go! It is always well to keep a sort of anchor out,grappled in the hinterlands of your conscience, when you are promisingin the dark, as I was that time.
All this time, when Mr. Ablethorpe was improving me and leading me inthe way of the Thirty-nine Articles (no, not exactly--I forgot--hedidn't like them; he thought he could have made much better ones, butin the way of the catechism and Prayer Book), we were legging it acrossbig bare Brom Common. He would stop and argue, keeping me lookingstraight at him till the water came into my eyes. Then on he would goagain, more set than ever on making a good Churchman out of me. Inever saw anybody quite so certain that he was right as Mr. Ablethorpe.Why, he would have taken his Davy that even the best of Dissenterswould only get into a kind of half-way house, back-stairs heaven, andmight count themselves lucky if they were not sent flying altogether.
But all this got us over the ground pretty quick, and we were at oldCaleb Fergusson's before we knew it. Then, just as we were going intothe stackyard I remembered that old Caleb was a Presbyterian, and ofthe worst and toughest kind--Free Kirk elder right through to the backseam of his coat. So I asked curate how that was, and how h
ereconciled helping old Caleb with his conscience and all that he hadbeen drilling into me.
But Mr. Ablethorpe only said, "Caleb Fergusson is a Presbyterian, it istrue, and very obstinate and blinded. But he has a farm at too dear arent, and has lost the only son who helped him in the working of it.So I go sometimes to give him a hand."
It was not a very logical explanation after what he had just beenunlading into me. But all the same I liked him the better forit--jolly well, too.
We found Caleb just at the end of stacking his meadow hay, and verytesty. He had his old wife out to help him. She was tottering on theedge of a rick, half-way up, and all the other help he had was a smallboy grandson, whom he was making sorry that he had ever been born. Ithought Caleb would have been glad to see us, and so I dare say he was.But his crusty Scotchness would not let him show it. Show it? No fear.
He let Mr. Ablethorpe take his fork, it is true, and ordered down hiswife from the stack with the grumble that she had left "the hale affairas saft as saps!"
Then he turned and rated the curate for not coming earlier, if he meantto be any use.
"But it's just like you English Kirkers," he said. "Ye are at the forewi' your chants and vain ceremonies, but when it comes to the halesomemilk o' the Word--faith, but your coo's dry!"
I stood aghast. I expected such a volley from the fervid curate aswould sweep the daring old man off the shafts of his red farm cart.But I did not know Mr. Ablethorpe yet.
"I am sorry, Caleb," he said meekly; "I meant to come earlier, but Ihad a few calls to make and a service to take----"
"Service, quo' he," snorted the old Free Kirker; "the rags o' Rome!"
"And besides," continued the curate, without troubling himself with thetaunt, "there was so heavy a dew this morning that I did not think youwould be leading till the afternoon!"
"Nae mair we wad, if Providence had left us the means o' waitin' tillthe hay was decently won. But what can a puir auld bereaved coupledae, hirplin' at death's door, baith the twa o' them?"
By this time I was on the stack, and the Hayfork Minister was sendingme up armful after armful to settle into its place.
"Tramp, will ye!" shouted the old man; "that wife o' mine has gottennae heavier on her feet than a cricket on the hearth, or a spider thattaketh hold wi' her hands and is in king's pailaces! Tramp, laddie!"
So, as Mr. Ablethorpe forked the hay, I stepped sturdily round, till I,too, was fain to strip to my shirt, and even moisten the sweet-smellingbog hay with the sweat of my brow.
And while we worked old Caleb stood by, and, as he expressed it,"tightly tairged the Apiscopian on doctrine and the Scriptures." Mr.Ablethorpe was certainly at a disadvantage in a theological argumentconducted from a hay cart (with a borrowed horse) against an assailantsitting crumbling tobacco into a pipe on the safe eminence of anupturned wheelbarrow.
"While we worked Old Caleb ... tightly tairged the'Apiscopian' on Doctrine and the Scripture."]
But the humility with which he listened to the old elder amazed me. Itwas not that he agreed with him. He carefully guarded against that.But he accepted many of the old Scot's positions, merely gliding in asaving clause by way of amendment, to salve his conscience, as it were,between two forkfuls of hay. Even these, however, were of no effect.For not only was Caleb a little deaf, but he never waited for a reply,and by the time that Mr. Ablethorpe had added his rider Caleb was farinto yet another argument destined to the final destruction of the"rags of Rome, and all sic as put their trust in them!"
When work was over for the day, Mr. Ablethorpe would not stay for tea.He had to go farther, he explained, after dabbling his face in thewater of the pump trough and wiping it with the fine white cambrichandkerchief which I had so scorned.
Caleb accompanied us to the gate, and I looked for a profusion ofgrateful thanks. But I did not know my Scotsman. All he said wasonly, "The neist time ye come to gie a body a half-day fowin'(forking), come at an hour when we will get some wark oot o' ye!"
The curate laughed, and shook him by the hand cordially.
"A good old man," he said, as we walked off, "but dreadfully confirmedin his delusions."
"Why did you not tell him what you told me?" I made bold to ask.
Mr. Ablethorpe turned quickly and clapped me on the shoulder.
"I have not faith enough to remove mountains," he said, "but with aspade I can sometimes make a show at moving a molehill where it oughtto go."
We continued on over the moor toward the Brom Water, where was theplace that Poacher Davie Elshiner had done his fishing that morning ofthe loss of poor Harry Foster.
I asked Mr. Ablethorpe what we were to do there, and warned him that Ihad no wish to go nearer to the house of Deep Moat. So that if hecounted on visiting his penitent Miss Aphra Orrin he would have to goalone.
"I am perturbed in my mind, and that's the truth," he said. "There issomething strange along the branch of the river which flows into theMoat. I walked home that way yesterday, and I wish for your presenceand assistance. Two can do so much more than one. Also, you know thelocality, as well I know. I look to you to help me to solve themystery which, to my mind at least, hangs over Brom Water."