Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 11

The most celebrated cracksman of his day, Ned Gregson, alias the Bristol Badger, was certainly the least fortunate of the three ruffians who contrived to effect an entrance into Oakfield House. He was run to earth. After he had been carried on the hurdle into the farmhouse the village surgeon made a superficial examination of his wound, which was of a fearful nature; the whole of the charge from the gun fired by Jane Ryan had entered the burglar’s chest, and the loss of blood was enormous. The only wonder was, that Gregson had not been killed outright; but he was not the sort of man to be so easily disposed of. As far as physical strength was concerned he was a perfect giant; this he had proved on many occasions.

He was more than double the age of Peace, with three times his strength. Nevertheless, as far as the guilty and lawless lives of the two men were concerned, there was not much difference between them; they were both criminals of the worst type, their whole career being one of profligacy and crime.

Gregson was taken away to the lock-up in charge of the constabulary, who procured an ambulance from the hospital. The divisional surgeon was sent for; every care was taken of the prisoner; and all that skill and attention could do to preserve so valuable a life as the burglar’s was, as is usual in such cases, not wanting.

When sufficiently recovered Gregson was examined before the stipendiary magistrates. The facts deposed to were plain enough, and the prisoner was committed for trial upon two distinct charges—​namely, murder and burglary.

Mr. John Ashbrook had by this time sufficiently regained his strength to leave his room and look after his farming stock, but he was not as yet up to his usual form.

“This extraordinary charge of murder,” said the farmer to Jane, one afternoon, as he reclined upon the sofa in the front parlour, “it seems just like a romance. Strange that you should have recognised the ruffian by the pistol’s flash on that eventful night.”

“I should have known him out of ten thousand. His face was as familiar to me as if I had seen him but yesterday.”

“Tell us all about it, Jane.”

“Well, master, it’s a sad and sorrowful tale, which I have kept locked up in my own breast for ever so long, but it is but right you should know all about it.”

“Right lass, right you are; go on. What made you imagine that the house was likely to be attacked? You asked me to load the two other guns.”

“I did, because I felt assured that danger was at hand.”

“Why so?”

“I had a dream—​twice I dreamt the same thing—​and then I went over to Mother Crowther and consulted her. She can read the future—​being—​being a wise woman.”

“She is a wise woman indeed if she can do that,” remarked the farmer, with a smile; “what did she say?”

“She consulted a book, cast my nativity, and told me that in less than three days I should see here or hereabouts the murderer of James Hopgood.”

“And who might he be?”

“He is dead now; he was my sweetheart,” answered Jane, hanging down her head.

“Oh, your sweetheart—​eh?”

“Yes, before I came here I lived at Squire Gordon’s. A kinder master never lived. James Hopgood was a carpenter by trade; he had been doing some work for the squire—​building some outhouses, and while the work was going on he slept in the house.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Aye, it must be nearly six years.”

“You’ve been here over four.”

“That’s true. Indeed, it must be more than six years. I cannot say to a certainty; but they’ve got the date—​the pleece have.”

“No matter, that’s quite near enough—​six years or a little more. What happened then?”

“I will describe all to you, just as it occurred. James Hopgood was in the kitchen; he and Mary, my fellow-servant, were having supper together. I was in the back kitchen, when all of a sudden we heard a scuffle in the passage, and my master cried, ‘Murder!’ James rushed past me, and flew up the kitchen stairs. Then we heard a heavy fall in the passage; this was followed by some low moans. I went up to see what was the matter, and found my master stretched on the floor of the passage, with blood flowing from a wound in his left temple. I endeavoured to raise him, but was unable to do so. He was a stout, heavy man, and I had not strength enough to lift him.”

“Was he killed?”

“No—​oh, dear, no; he recovered afterwards. But the worst remains to be told. Oh, master, these be tears that are a flowin’ from my eyes. I can see it all now, as if it occurred but yesterday.”

“Yes, your master, the squire, you found him senseless. There’s no hurry, girl, take your time—​don’t flurry yourself.”

“While I was looking at my poor master, I caught sight of James Hopgood and the burglar—​him as I shot down in the big bedroom. James had closed with the ruffian, who, as far as I could judge, was striving to shake James off; but he was not able to do this so easily; they wrestled like two serpents. I felt sick and faint; but, notwithstanding, I had sufficient strength left to hasten to young Hopgood’s assistance. I saw the flash of an open knife in the pale moonlight, saw the gleaming of the desperate wretch’s eyes, and in another moment the knife was buried up to the hilt in James’s breast. He fell with a deep groan, and never stirred hand or foot afterwards.

“I rushed forward, and caught his murderer by the handkerchief which encircled his throat. After this I lost all consciousness. When I came to I found myself on the wet grass of the lawn—​the ruffian’s handkerchief was firmly grasped in my right hand.”

“Why, Jane, my girl, this is indeed a horrible story, and have you kept this all to yourself for these last six years?”

“Indeed I have; but, waking or sleeping, one burning thought has been in my brain. It is this—​to avenge the death of my dear and true-hearted James.”

The farmer was bewildered—​partly dazed by the fearful tale he had been listening to. He turned his eyes towards his sister, who had crept into the room to listen to the appalling narrative.

“Did you know of this?” inquired Ashbrook.

“I knew a shocking affair of some sort took place at Squire Gordon’s when Jane was there, but I never knew till now its precise nature. I understood that some young man was murdered—​that is all. How and by whom I was never told.”

“And was the man never discovered? An attempt was made to find him, I s’pose?” asked the farmer of his servant.

“Government offered a reward of a hundred pounds; a description of the man was printed on handbills, which were sent, so they said, to every police-station.”

“With what result?”

“With none, except the arrest of a poor harmless fellow, who never set foot in the squire’s house, and who had no more to do with the crime than you or I have.”

“And the handkerchief?”

“That I have kept. The knife also with which the murder was committed was picked up on the lawn; that, too, I have preserved. They are both now in the possession of the pleece. Ah! we shall bring it home to the deep-dyed villain. I felt certain that, sooner or later, he would be caught, the murderin’ thief.”

“What became of the squire?”

“He left England for good, and settled in Brittany. He has a daughter who is married there.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I believe so. I never heard of his death—​oh! I’m pretty sure he’s alive.”

“Do you think he could identify the man?”

“He told me after his recovery that he saw his features distinctly, and that he would be able to swear to him. It appeared that Gregson was making his escape from the house with the things he had stolen, when he was suddenly and unexpectedly confronted by the squire, who had come over the fields, crossed the lawn, and entered by the back door of his residence.”

“We’ve all of us had a narrow escape,” said Maud Ashbrook, “and it will be a warning to us for the future.”

“I’m glad Jane shot the fellow down,” observed the farmer. “She’s a true-hearted, brave girl—​not, mind ye, but it would ha’ bin better for him to have fallen by the hands of one of us men.”

“No, master, no,” cried Jane, in a deprecating tone. “I am the most deeply injured, sick and sore of heart—​I who have sworn to devote the remainder of my life to discover the slayer of James Hopgood—​I was the most fitting person to hunt him down. It has been done, and he will not escape now.”

Jane had given her evidence before the stipendiary magistrates in the clearest and most lucid manner. She swore positively to the prisoner Gregson, whose features she declared had not changed since she saw them so distinctly on that fatal night. Her fellow-servant also identified the prisoner, whom she saw, so she averred, through the back-parlour window at the time Jane had hold of him by the handkerchief.

He was also recognised by several of the police as a well-known burglar, who had been convicted several times.

Gregson, who was about as hardened a ruffian as it was possible to conceive, knew and felt that his game was up; nevertheless he clung to the hope, as most criminals do of his class, that he might escape the last dread sentence of the law—​perhaps his life might be spared.

He was taken to Broxwell Gaol; his custodians conducted him through the lodge, then he passed through a square with a green plot of grass in the middle, encircled by a gravel walk.

It was like a college quadrangle.

Gregson looked at the grass and the turnkeys who came out to meet him. He was conducted up a flight of stone steps, and one of the turnkeys who had joined him and the constabulary who had him under their charge tapped at a thick oak door, which was covered with iron nails and secured with a gigantic lock.

They were admitted immediately into a little room, which was almost entirely filled by a clerks’ desk and stool.

Upon this stool was seated an old man, with a pair of iron-rimmed spectacles on his nose, making entries in an account-book.

The turnkey who had opened the door to them now closed it with an ominous sound.

The key clanked loudly in the lock.

The Bristol Badger was in prison.

The turnkey unlocked another door and disappeared. In a few moments he returned, dismissed the constable, and ordered the prisoner to follow him.

They entered a snow-white corridor, which was lined with iron doors, and above with galleries, also of iron, bright and polished.

Gregson was placed in a cell, for some time in the company of a single turnkey, who stood by him, rigid and voiceless as a statue, watchful as a lynx.

The “cracksman” assumed an air of dejection, and kept his eyes fixed upon the ground.

He had only partially recovered from his wound. From this a vast number of shots had been extracted; but several more, it was thought, still remained in the flesh.

The burning pain in his chest had not entirely left him, although it was not nearly so insupportable as at first.

Presently the door of the cell opened, and a gentleman in plain clothes came in. He had a ruddy complexion, with a brown moustache and beard.

Gregson recognised him immediately. He was the governor.

The recognition was mutual.

“So,” he said, “you have come here again?”

“They’ve brought me here,” muttered the cracksman.

“Precisely. Of course you know the usual forms prescribed by the authorities. We must put you through the ordeal of a warm bath.

“Turn on the tap, Wilson,” said the governor; and in a few minutes the bath was filled with hot water.

They took off his handcuffs, and then stood by him as he undressed.

“Do you know, governor, that I’ve been wounded—​well-nigh to death? It’s too bad to put a cove in hot water in my state.”

“Wounded, eh? We’ll send for the doctor.”

The prison surgeon was brought into the room.

He glanced at the wound, which still presented an angry appearance.

“The bath won’t hurt you. There is no necessity for you to immerse your chest or shoulders in the water. In my opinion you will be better for it.”

“All right,” returned Gregson; “you shall have your way. I’m not one to make things disagreeable.”

And forthwith he jumped in.

The governor paced the corridor for the next ten minutes or so under pretence of superintending the arrangements of the prisoners’ dinners, which ascended from the kitchen on a great tray by means of mysterious machinery.

On his return he called another turnkey, and ordered him to have the prisoner’s clothes brushed and cleaned.

“You have got plenty of money,” he said to Gregson. “You are suffering from a severe wound. We don’t wish to deal harshly with you.”

“I’m much obliged, I’m sure,” returned the Badger.

The governor took no notice of this last observation, which, to say the truth, was half conciliatory and half sarcastic.

“We will therefore allow you to wear your own clothes, and to procure your own meals from an eating-house if you prefer it.”

“Yes, I do prefer it, if it makes no difference.”

“So be it, then. You will see by the printed copy of the rules which is hung up in every cell that you are not allowed more than one pint of wine or one quart of malt liquor daily, and that, if you undertake to board yourself, you must do so altogether. Besides this you will be allowed books to read and paper to write upon, and other little comforts, under my supervision, as I have no desire to treat you with unnecessary severity during the brief period that will elapse while you are awaiting your trial. I hope you will conduct yourself in a proper and becoming manner.”

The cracksman nodded, and seemed by his demeanour to appreciate the lenity which the governor displayed.

“You are very good, sir, I’m sure,” he muttered. “I wish all gentlemen in your position were equally kind and merciful.”

The governor bowed in a dignified manner, and then left the cell. The turnkey returned with Gregson’s clothes, and stood by him as he dressed. He was then conducted to Cell No. 15.

There they showed him how to ring the bell, how to pull the slide from the grating when he wanted fresh air, and how to manage the water taps and the bed furniture.

They also informed him that when he wanted anything from the town there was a prison servant attached to the establishment whose office it was to run errands for the prisoners who were waiting for trial.

The turnkeys made these explanations with a courteous accent, for turnkeys have a sort of veneration for great criminals.

And Ned Gregson, in this respect, was a man of mark.

The prison officials went out of the cell backwards, as if they were retiring from a royal presence; they locked the door with an ostentatious noise that they might thereby strike a wholesome awe into the mind of their prisoner.

Gregson sat himself down upon the wooden stool in his cell without moving.

The bitterness of his thoughts it would not be so easy to describe.

He remembered with harrowing distinctness the most remote incident of the night upon which the ill-fated James Hopgood fell beneath the fatal blow.

“And that cursed woman!” ejaculated the Badger. “Who would have dreamt of her being an inmate of the farmhouse? And the oily-tongued Peace, he has got clear off, I’ll dare be sworn; and the chances are that he is now playing that old fiddle of his—​whilst I—​I—”

Here he uttered an impious oath, and then lapsed into silence again.

He sat for two hours a prey to the most agonising thoughts.

At the expiration of that time he uttered curses loud and deep. He ran frantically round his narrow cell.

One of the turnkeys opened the door, and told him that he must make less noise. There was a punishment for making an outcry of that nature, and he pointed to one of the printed rules.

The “cracksman” answered with a howl of rage, and squatted abjectly on his stone floor.

The turnkey, who was pretty well used to scenes of this nature, and who, therefore, made due allowance, repeated his warning and shut the door.

Soon after this the prison servant brought a wooden tray in.

There were two dishes, each surrounded by a pewter cover. One contained three slices of roast mutton, floating in lukewarm gravy; the other contained four good-sized potatoes.

Gregson, who was still on the floor, looked at them supinely.

“Governor! thought you would like a little dinner,” said the man kindly; and he propped up a slab which was hanging from the wall, placed the tray on it, reached down a salt dish from a shelf in the corner, where it had grown dusty, in company with a bible and two hymn books.

“Will you take beer or wine?”

“I want wine,” said the Badger, sulkily.

“Very good, I will bring you a pint; it’s against the rules to have any more.”

He drank some of the eating-house sherry, which, bad as it was, encouraged him to eat a few mouthfuls. This awoke him from the stupor into which he had fallen, and which had been almost akin to madness.