Deep Moat Grange

  CHAPTER III

  THE BAILIFF OF DEEP MOAT GRANGE

  Elsie and I cheered him. We would do what we could, which truly wasnot much. But I promised for my father, whose arm was long inBreckonside, reaching even to East Dene. But the poacher shook hishead.

  "They will get poor Davie. They will put it on him--yes, for sure!" herepeated. And from this melancholy conclusion he was not to be moved.He offered to accompany us, however, on our search. And we were gladof that, because we were quite sure of his innocence, and in such acase the difference between three and two is very marked. Two--youwant to get close and rub shoulders. Three--you scatter and look thehedges.

  We advised the old poacher to hide his fish under the bank, but, withstrong good sense, he refused.

  "They are Davie's only chance," he said, "there is just a possibilitythat there's an _aw-li-bi_ in Davie's basket. He has catched so manyof the Duke's trouts since three this morning that they may think hecould not have had the time to make away with a man as well!"

  As we went he told us how the post carrier had got his mail bags fromMiss Harbishaw, the postmistress, on the stroke of three thatmorning--"a fearful sight in a mustard-coloured flannel dressinggown"--Davie described her. He himself had stood on the other side ofthe mail cart, well in the shadow.

  "Did Miss Harbishaw see you?" Elsie asked.

  "Well," said the poacher, "I would not just make so bold as to say.She might have seen my legs, mixed up with Bess's piebald stockings.But I keeped fairly quiet, not wanting her to spot the fishing basketon my back."

  Davie was not stupid, and he saw clearly enough that it was the bestthing he could do if Harry Foster were really dead, to go and help lookfor his murderer. So he came along with us, telling us of the talk hehad had with the carrier in his cart.

  "I was telling stories, and we were wonderful merry!" he admitted.

  "How far did you go with him?" we asked.

  "To where the road dives into the wood like a rabbit!" he answered."Here!" he cried, suddenly throwing up his hand.

  And there, plain enough to be seen, were the marks of Davie's bootheels as he had leaped upon the bank from the post gig.

  "Then I crossed the dyke and went down to the waterside."

  From that point, as you may suppose, we followed carefully the marks ofthe wheels. The pony had been going no faster than a walk. The trackswere deeply impressed, and as it was damper under the trees, you couldeven see where Piebald Bess had been sparing her lame foot, which, ofcourse, she would not have the chance of doing when pushed to a trot.

  Then Davie came to a halt, Elsie just behind him. There was nothingparticular, only the ground was pawed and cut about in little crescentdiscs, as if a horse had got wearied standing and wanted to get on.Then beyond that the wheel ruts were much deeper than before.

  "He has talked to somebody, he has taken other passengers here," criedDavie, "and I never heard them--fool that I was--thinking of nothingbut the Duke's silly trout in the burn yonder."

  Without speaking we followed on, till the Brom Water, slow, deep, andstill, lay before us. It was strictly preserved, and we boys dared notvisit it for fear of the fishery watchers and keepers, who were up toall sorts of tricks to catch us. Only old hands like Davie dared sucha thing, and even they chose their time.

  The road went across a bridge, a high-arched, old-fashioned structure,which I liked coming over in our light cart, because of the curious"hunch" it gave you as if you were on a swing. And close in by thebridge and on the near side of it, we came at last on what we had comeout to look for--the signs of a struggle, the wheel tracks confused andpartly up on the bank, the traces of many feet, very indistinct owingto the hard, dry ground, and (what took all our eyes) a dark irregularpatch on the left side of the road, which had filled and overflowed thedeep furrow of a track.

  It did not need any doctor's certificate to tell us that that wasblood, and we knew very well that we stood where poor Harry Foster hadbeen foully dealt with. But of the carrier himself we could seenothing. The pony had bounded ahead at full speed, and for Davie'ssake we thought it best not to go farther. Because the people who werecoming along the Breckonside road might easily cover over the tracks ordestroy them, crowding to see.

  So we went to meet the first of them at the place where Davie Elshinerhad wished his benefactor a good morning and jumped on the bank, withthe last jest on his lips. We were just in time. Codling, our fatpoliceman, was there, and he took up Davie on the spot, warning himthat all he might say would be used against him.

  "I don't care," said Davie. "I will tell all I know, and that's littleenough--more shame to me for going after trouts with poor Harry so nearhis end."

  The village men scattered to search the wood and the waterside, findingnothing but sundry "stances" where the angler had stood while fishing,and the nook in which he had slept among the bracken, with the marks ofour feet as we went toward him from the stile.

  We started off home without making any more discoveries, and as we wentElsie pointed up to the firs above our heads.

  "What sort of leaves were in the cart when we saw it?" she asked mesuddenly.

  "Some kind of big, broad leaves--oak, I think," I answered, for indeed,I had paid no very great attention.

  "Well," she said, "will you please tell me where big, broad leaves camefrom in Spar hawk Wood?"

  And then I saw how true it was--the thing that she meant to say. Therewere only tall Scotch firs in the Sparhawk, and not a low-growing treeor one with a leaf upon it! Only pine needles and fir cones.

  "We will come back in the morning," I said to Elsie, "and see what wecan find. Piebald Bess never came back this road!"

  "As, indeed, we might have seen before this by the single tracks," sheadded. And, indeed, it was no great discovery after all. But oldCodling and the village men just took it for granted, and as many ofthe farmers and even my father came in conveyances there was soon nolack of tracks all over the road.

  But Elsie and I kept our counsel and made tryst for the morning. It isterrible to get bitten with the wanting to find out things. The moreyou know the more you want to know.

  Next morning it was still and clear, with a promise of heat. Elsie hadasked Nance Edgar if she could go, but I had dispensed with asking myfather. Indeed, so long as he was assured that I was the cleverest boyin school, and at the top of the topmost class, he did not trouble muchabout me, having other things on his mind. And Mr. Mustard was alwaysready to tell him all that. Besides it was true. I was not so cleveras Elsie, and I did not pretend to be. But I could lick everybody inBreckonside school into fits, and the master was cowed of my father. Ithink he would have let me sit on his tall hat!

  This morning was a Friday, as I remember, and there were plenty of mensearching the moor, prowling about the woods, some with picks andshovels, some just with their hands in their pockets. They werelooking for Harry Foster. The East Dene police, too, were all aboutthe edges of Sparhawk Wood, as important as if they knew all about itbut wouldn't tell. One of them, posted by the big, black patch to keeppeople off, first told us to go back, and then asked where we weregoing.

  Elsie merely told him that so far as she knew the road went further--onto Bewick Upton, in fact.

  "Are you the kids that came across the moor and found this--and theprisoner?"

  To make him civil we told him we were, but that Davie Elshiner wassurely innocent and would not harm a fly.

  "That's as may be," said the policeman; "what did he say when you wokehim?"

  We told the man that Davie was afraid of being suspected, having beenlast seen with the missing man, also how he was sure that because hewas a known poacher people would not believe him.

  "Aye," said the policeman, nodding his head dreadfully wisely, "indeed,he was right to say that. Ah, a bad conscience is our best friend! Itis indeed!" And everything we could say in favour of Davie seemed justto tell against him, so that we had to be content with saying that
hewas the person least likely to do such a thing, because he wouldcertainly be suspected, and that they might as well suspect us.

  This last remark seemed to impress the policeman, who pulled out a fatnotebook and solemnly jotted it down before our eyes.

  "It's a good rule in our business," he said slowly, "to suspect theleast likely persons. Thank you very much for your interestingcommunication--thank you very much, indeed!"

  "Ah, you're dotty!" I called out to him in a sudden fume of anger, andleft him standing there and slowly buckling up the flap of the insidepocket in which he had stowed away his precious notebook.

  Now I am not going to pretend that Elsie and I found anything verygrand that day, for we didn't. But at any rate we knew for certain howDappled Bess came home, and where the leaves came from. It was allsimple enough and quite natural. The poor beast had got a fright bythe bridge on the Bewick road. She turned off it, therefore, as soonas she could. We found the wheel tracks leading away to the left alonga rough moor track. The cart had been going fast, evidently empty orat least very lightly laden. For there was little depth to theimpression even in fairly mossy places, but the rocks and stones werebumped and scarred with the iron tire as the wagon rebounded from sideto side.

  We soon found ourselves making for the highway, which is known in ourparts as the Old Military Road. It goes into Scotland to a placecalled Longtown, and beyond that, they say, to Edinburgh and Glasgow.But that I only knew from hearsay. At any rate it was old, and so werethe woods all about it. Centuries old they were, and the fine oldhouse among them was called Deep Moat Grange. It stood right in themiddle, and had always been inhabited by rich folk. But, only a fewyears before, my father had done it all up for old Mr. Stennis, whomthey called the Golden Farmer, because of the great deal of money hehad made farming and dealing in cattle. He was living there now, andfor that matter was Elsie's very own grandfather. We called him theUnnatural, because he would have nothing to do with her--all because ofsomething her mother had done long ago, before Elsie was so much asborn. But he was a lusty old cock bird, and being rich was muchrespected. He bred first-rate sporting terriers that brought in apower of money, my father said. We knew all about him, too, that is asmuch as any one knew, because Nance Edgar sometimes worked there byfavour of the farm bailiff, Mr. Simon Ball.

  Elsie and I were standing at the turn of the road looking at the tracksof the wheels which Harry Foster's cart had made in the grass, when whoshould come up but the very man, Mr. Ball, the bailiff at Deep MoatGrange.

  He knew me, which was nothing extraordinary. They say I am the imageof what my father was at my age, and, of course, everybody knows him.If they don't, he tells them, and sees if he can do business with them.

  Well, Mr. Ball came up and asked us what we were looking at, and whenwe had told him, he blurted out all in a gabble that he had seen theblue and red cart with the piebald mare come tearing over the moor roadyesterday morning. He had been in the little "lantern" above thedrying-room at the corn mill, which is so high that you can see overthe tree tops and look right out on the moor. He thought it was arunaway, but when he had time to run down to the end of the avenue, hecould only see it like a little square dab rocking and lurching fromone side of the road to the other, and scraping trees and bushes likeall possessed.

  "And has nobody come to tell you that poor Harry Foster is murdered?" Isaid.

  "I heard the men in the yard talking about some such suspicion," hesaid quite calmly, "but nobody has been here. You see, Master Yarrow,our old gov'nor, Mr. Stennis, has been up in London for three daysseeing his lawyer, and he don't like folk coming about the Grange whenhe is from home!"

  "So I have heard," said I, "and he keeps some fine dogs there, too, tosee that they don't."

  For my father had refused to deliver Mr. Stennis' goods, except at Mr.Ball's house, which was on the main road, and no tearing dogs kept.

  "Very like--very like," said Mr. Ball hastily; "and who may this fineyoung lady be--your sister? She seems to favour you, sir."

  "Elsie Stennis," says I, "and if she had her rights you know very wellwhat she would be! Your young mistress!"

  "Elsie Stennis?" he gasped, "not poor Bell's daughter--and Robin's?"

  "The same!"

  "Bell and Robin Stennis--I mind them well. But where, how----"

  The bailiff stopped, all thrown out of gear, much more affected,indeed, than when it was a question of Harry Foster's death.

  "Well," he went on at last, "it's perhaps as well not asking. I mightblurt things out. But I hope--I may say that I pray--that the day maycome when you shall have your rights, young lady, and I shall see yoncrew sent about their business to a madhouse. That's the fit place forsuch as they! There they go. I must be off. They will be at theirprocessioning again, and Mr. Stennis will never forgive me if they cometo a mischief or go off the premises!"

  We did not know then what he was talking about, but we could hear overthe green tree tops the sound of a cornet playing a marching tune, andmarvellously well, too.