Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 9

The sudden disappearance of Charles Peace and his two companions upon the arrival of the villagers excited surprise in the minds of all who had assembled at the farmhouse. The police officer did not choose to commit himself by any expression of opinion. He was not a man given to loquacity where silence was requisite. He did not, however, attempt to deny the assertion made by soldier Jarvis—​namely, that the robbers were not far off.

Enjoining the villagers to stay where they were and to carefully avoid treading over more ground than was absolutely necessary, the young soldier accompanied Mr. Ashbrook to the kitchen window, where the entrance had been forced by removing the glass with a diamond—​or “starring the glaze,” as it is termed in the burglar’s phraseology—​and after this had been done panelling the shutter. It was this last process that aroused Jane Ryan to a sense of danger.

Jarvis carefully examined the ground beneath the window, and pointed to some footprints in the wet earth which led towards the straw yard. In one place they were so plain that every nail in the soles could be distinguished.

“They are the impressions of a strange foot—​that’s certain sure,” observed Ashbrook.

“We are on the trail of one of them,” returned Jarvis. “I dare say they thought they could do as they liked among yokels, but we’ve got the trail and I mean to keep it.”

The speaker walked slowly across the yard, following the tracks with his eye as a bloodhound would have followed them with his nose.

“They’re in this barn, Master Ashbrook,” he said, stopping before one of the doors. “No, they baint, though, they’re come out agen and gone along the wall. But they’ve left their dead mate behind ’em. See how different their track is now; they tramples quite close alongside of each other, while afore they carried the body from shoulder to shoulder, and so were forced to walk one behind and a little way apart.”

The villagers gave a murmur of astonishment.

“Ah, he knows how many blue beans make five,” said the carter, as he took out the peg by which the folding doors were kept dosed.

“I don’t feel quite so sure about the footsteps,” remarked the policeman; “they don’t appear to me to tally with the others.”

“If I’m mistaken, we shall have to try back,” answered Jarvis. “Of course, it is just possible we are on a false scent. Ah! what is this?” The speaker pointed significantly to some drops of blood upon the straw in front of the barn. “What say you to that?”

“Blood, without a doubt,” observed the constable.

“That’s where they laid him down when they opened the barn door.”

“Ah!—​dare say—​most likely.”

The villagers were open-mouthed with wonder. They, one and all, voted the soldier a necromancer.

The doors were flung wide open, and they sprang over the rack into the body of the barn. There had been some threshing done the day before, and there was a vast heap of chaff just outside.

While they were gazing around, a low moan, as of one in pain, fell upon their ears.

“Keep quiet, lads,” exclaimed Jarvis; “leave this matter to me and the constable. Keep where you are. We can none of us tell what next will happen.”

“Here’s footmarks on the chaff, and blood on it also,” said the constable, who took a few steps further inside, whereupon his eyes lighted on the prostrate figure of a man lying in the corner on a heap of straw.

He flashed his bull’s-eye on the face of the wounded burglar, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

The Bristol Badger lay helpless, and bathed in blood.

Jane Ryan, who had followed the constable and Jarvis, gave a slight scream.

“Don’t take on so, woman,” said the constable. “He’s only got his deserts.”

Heedless of this observation, Jane went close to the wounded burglar and peered into his face.

“Dost know who this here is? I’ll tell ye!” she exclaimed, in a voice of concentrated rage; “he’s the murderer of my sweetheart. I should ha’ known him out o’ ten thousand.”

There was a murmur of unmixed surprise at this observation.

“What beest thee saying, Jane?” said the farmer, scratching his head. “Hast ever seen ’im afore?”

“Aye, sure enough I have, master. It was not for nothing that I sat up this night. I knew summut was about to happen, but never guessed it would turn out like this.”

Gregson endeavoured to rise to his feet, but the attempt was a futile one; he was too weak from loss of blood.

“What has that false, wicked woman been saying?” he inquired of the policeman.

“She accuses you of murder,” was the brief rejoinder.

“She’s mad. I never saw her before.”

“What’s to be done wi’ this man?” inquired the farmer of the constable.

“He’s my prisoner, anyway,” answered the latter. “Best see and have his wounds attended to, and then we will take him to the lock-up. You charge him, I suppose?”

“Yes, with burglary.”

“Attempted burglary,” chimed in the cracksman.

“And I charge him with wilful murder!” exclaimed Jane Ryan.

Having said this, she folded her arms upon her breast and relapsed into gloomy silence. There she stood, colossal as an Amazon, in her sublime strength, beautiful as a Judith in her just and fearful vengeance.

A hurdle was brought by some of the villagers, and upon this the ill-fated Badger was placed; he was then carried into the farmhouse, not, however, before the constable had taken the precaution to handcuff him, for he was known to that astute officer as a ruffian of no common order. He was, however, run to earth, having been, in a manner of speaking, hunted down by a woman.

A doctor was sent for, who bandaged his wound, which, although severe, was not likely to prove mortal—​certainly not unless some unfavourable symptons set in.

While all this clatter had been going on, Charles Peace had contrived to conceal himself in a neighbouring coppice, from which he durst not emerge while the village folk were prowling about.

When Gregson was conveyed into the house the majority of the villagers wheeled off; at the same time Jarvis, however, was still endeavouring to trace out No. 2. the Badger’s companions. He came too near to the coppice where Peace was concealed to be at all pleasant to a gentleman of his retiring habits, so Peace was fain to avail himself of a neighbouring hedge, on the other side of which he crept along on all fours.

THE “BRISTOL BADGER” SHOT BY JANE RYAN.

Having gone some considerable distance by this means of progressive, he imagined that he was out of sight, and betook himself to the open field, across which he ran at the top of his speed. His movements were however not unobserved by Jarvis.

The latter caught Mr. John Ashbrook by the leg. The farmer was mounted on his bay mare, and said: “There goes one of them; ride down the lane and intercept his flight, while I run across the field. We shall have him yet.”

The farmer needed no second bidding. He rode at the hedge which skirted the lane. With one stroke from the long corded whip, and one cry from the rider’s lips, the gallant animal bounded over the hedge like a flying deer.

“Wouldn’t ’a brushed a fly off the top twig,” exclaimed Ashbrook, triumphantly. “Now, for my gentleman. Dall it, if this won’t turn an eventful night, especially if I catch that rascal.”

While the farmer was riding down the lane, Jarvis and several others were in hot pursuit of the fugitive.

Peace became aware, much to his discomfiture, that every movement he made was plainly visible to his pursuers, and he deeply regretted having taken to the open field.

He ran his hardest, and had the satisfaction of getting into the lane before any of the pursuing party had even reached the field.

Ashbrook, as he was trotting down the lane, saw the fugitive jump through a gap in the hedge. The farmer urged on his steed, being now under the full impression that the capture of Peace was reduced to a certainty.

In a brief space of time he came within a hundred yards of the enemy.

“I’ve got him now!” exclaimed the farmer. “He’s mine as sure as my name’s Jack Ashbrook.”

But there’s an old adage “that it is as well not to reckon your chickens before they are hatched.”

Peace was in imminent danger, but he was an astute, cunning rascal, who was up to every feint and dodge in all cases of emergency. He, nevertheless, was fully impressed with the fact that matters were growing serious—​much too serious to be pleasant. He turned round and boldly faced the horseman.

Drawing a revolver from his pocket, he watched till Ashbrook came within range of the shot, then he fired. At this time he could not have been more than twenty paces from the horse and its rider.

A bullet was lodged in Mr. Ashbrook’s right shoulder. The wound was not a very serious one certainly—​not enough to place the farmer hors de combat, but the effects of the shot proved more disastrous in another way.

The mare, who was a high-spirited animal, became restive from the pistol’s flash. She reared, then stumbled, and threw her rider heavily to the ground. Peace rushed forward and struck Ashbrook two blows on the head, which produced insensibility.

He then made for the mare’s head. Turning her sharply round, he led her some paces from the scene of action. He patted her on the neck, and strove as best he could to overcome the effects of the fright caused by the flash of his weapon. The mare became comparatively quiet and tractable.

Peace jumped on her back, and rode off at headlong speed.

While all this had been taking place in the lane the mob of persons in the field had increased considerably in numbers; but the foremost of them were a long way from that part of the lane where the short but decisive struggle had taken place.

Two other horses had been brought out from the stables at Oakfield, but some time necessarily elapsed before they could be saddled; and when Mr. Cheadle and Mr. Jamblin mounted them for the purpose of giving chase, Peace was so far ahead that the chances were remote of finding him.

He knew the bye-roads of the neighbourhood perfectly well, and took very excellent care to choose a circuitous route. As he was riding along he listened every now and then to ascertain if there were any sounds of horses’ hoofs to be heard, but none were as yet audible. He felicitated himself upon this fact, arguing therefrom that his pursuers had gone another road.

“I shall give them the double; they are on the wrong scent,” he ejaculated, in a tone of satisfaction; “but even when the worst comes to the worst all that will be left for me will be to make a stout fight of it.”

He had unlimited faith in his own power, skill, and address in confronting and overcoming difficulties; and his confidence did not desert him on this occasion.

Presently he came to three cross roads, and was hesitating which to take—​calculating the while the chances of detection with his accustomed coolness.

While thus engaged he descried a mounted patrol on a formidable-looking horse, coming at a measured pace towards him.

To turn and fly was his first impulse, but upon second consideration he thought it better to put a bold face on the matter.

The mounted policeman came forward, and regarded him with a look of doubt and mistrust.

“Good morning, friend,” said Peace, in a cheery tone. “Better weather than it was a few hours ago.”

“Yes,” returned the other. “Where might you be journeying to this early hour?”

The speaker regarded him with a searching glance. This, however, did not in any way discompose Peace, who, throughout his career, plumed himself upon being able to throw dust in the eyes of the constabulary.

“Ah, I’m sorry to say my errand, or rather the cause of it, is one of a painful nature. A poor gentleman is at death’s door, and I have been sent off for the doctor. In cases of this sort minutes are precious. Let me see, yonder’s the nearest way to Hull, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the right-hand one. But who is in such extreme danger?”

“A farmer—​Mr. Ashbrook. Poor fellow, it is a chance if he recovers, so they seem to think.”

“I know both the Mr. Ashbrooks perfectly well. Which one is it that’s so bad; they were right enough yesterday?”

“Mr. John Ashbrook.”

“Umph! that’s strange. What’s the matter with Mr. John?”

“He was thrown—​horse reared and fell upon him. His injuries are very serious.”

“I’m sorry to hear this, but—” and here the speaker regarded Peace with a still more searching look, “it’s his horse you are riding.”

“Yes, that’s right enough; it is.”

“Then who are you going for?”

“Dr. Gardiner.”

While this conversation was taking place, Peace had so distorted his features that recognition was almost impossible. He was an adept at this. By constant practice he was enabled to throw out his under jaw, lift up his eyebrows, and so alter the expression of his features that he defied detection. This is now pretty generally acknowledged.

“Well, I must not let anyone detain me very long in a case like this,” he observed, carelessly. “So farewell for the present.”

The patrol made no reply. He did not, however, feel quite satisfied that all was quite right; at the same time he did not consider it his duty to offer any obstacle to Peace’s passage along the road, which led directly to the town of Hull.

Peace trotted along till the patrol was lost to sight, then he pulled the bridal rein of the mare, and turned her into a narrow lane which ran at right angles with the road.

“That fellow suspects something,” he murmured; “and for two pins he would have collared me there and then. The sooner I part company with the mare the better it will be for both of us, I’m thinking.”

He dismounted, opened a gate which was at the corner of a meadow, and led the mare into the field; then he took off the saddle and bridle, which he threw into a ditch, gave the animal a sharp crack with his whip, shut the gate, and left her to herself. This done, he proceeded merrily along on foot.

Messrs. Cheadle and Jamblin had meanwhile been riding to their hearts’ content, but they did not catch the most distant glance of the man of whom they were in search. No wonder, seeing that they had lost all traces of the fugitive, and had been journeying in an opposite, or very nearly in an opposite direction to the one taken by Peace. They had, therefore, the gratification of riding many miles upon a bootless errand.

They returned, vexed and dispirited, to Oakfield House, where they found John Ashbrook in bed, with his sister and the village surgeon in close attendance upon him.

The latter had extracted the bullet, and strapped up the head of the sufferer, who was, he said, doing as well as could be expected. Certainly there was no immediate danger.

The farmer had an unimpaired constitution, and, although sadly bruised and knocked about, would in all probability soon get the better of his wounds.

Peace, when he came to the end of the lane, turned into a road, where stood a small beerhouse, of a primitive character, with a good dry skittle-ground at the back.

He knocked several times at the side door of this establishment, but received no answer to his repeated summonses. It was evident that all were asleep within.

He called the landlord by name, with no better result. While thus engaged, a man came forward from the opposite side of the road, and said—

“Why, what’s up now, Charley? Want to get in?”

Peace turned round in some alarm, but was a little reassured upon finding the speaker was a friend of his.

“Hang it! I’m as tired as a dog, and wanted an hour or two’s rest,” said Peace.

“Tired! where have you been to?”

“Playing the fiddle to a party some miles away from here. They could not accommodate me with a shake-down, so I’ve had to trudge it.”

“Come along wi’ me, my lad,” said the good-natured groom. “You shall have an hour or two’s rest in my little crib over the stable.”

Peace gladly availed himself of his friend’s offer.

A hue and cry would be raised throughout the neighbourhood of the attempted burglary at Oakfield House and the surrounding districts, and Peace, young as he was at this time—​he had only just turned twenty—​was fully impressed with the necessity of using caution.

No one would dream of his being in the groom’s sleeping apartment. The latter informed him that he had to take the carriage up to London, and that he should not return from the metropolis for several days.

“But that aint of no kind o’ consequence,” said the groom. “You can sleep away to your heart’s content, only when you do leave mind and lock the door. You can give the key to the stable-boy.”

“I’m sure I do not know how to sufficiently thank you, Jim,” observed Peace in his blandest tone and manner.

There’s no call for thanks, lad. You’ve done me a good turn afore now, and one good turn deserves another.”

Peace was conducted by his companion into the small sleeping chamber.

“There you are,” said the latter, pointing to the bed. “In less than half an hour I shall be at the station; make yourself comfortable. We shan’t meet again for some days, that’s quite certain, and so good-bye for the present.”

“Good-bye, Jim, and many thanks.”

Then, as the man was about to pass out, Peace said, quietly—

“Oh, by the way, there is no occasion for you to say you have seen me, or, indeed, I’ve been here. It’s a little private matter I’ve been about. You understand.”

“A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse,” returned the other, with a chuckle. “No one will know anything from me, Charlie.”

After the departure of his friend, Peace was too disturbed in his mind to sleep. He watched from the little window of his dormitory the carriage and pair, driven towards the railway station by his friend, the groom.

When the vehicle was lost to sight, he walked towards the door, took the key out of the lock, and fastened the door on the inside. In a few minutes after this he stretched himself on the bed, and sank into a deep sleep—​the village clock had struck eleven before he awoke.

He now began to consider his course of action; he felt perfectly secure from observation in his present quarters. No one would for a moment imagine that he was safely ensconced in one of the apartments of the stables adjoining a gentleman’s house.

He thought it best to watch and wait; it would not do to be too precipitate; in the dusk of the evening he might creep out and get clear off.

He found in the groom’s bedroom some bread and cold meat, which served him for a meal, and he prepared himself to pass the lonely hours as best he could. The day wore on tediously enough, but the longest day must have an end. And when the grey mists of evening began to encircle the objects seen before so distinctly from the window, Charles Peace prepared to take his departure.

He disguised himself in so complete a manner as to almost defy detection. He made himself up as a hawker. He took the precaution to always carry a hawker’s licence, made out in a fictitious name; the licence itself, however, was genuine enough.

He heard, as he descended the creaking stairs, the boy whistling in the stable. Agreeably to the directions he had received, he handed the key to the lad, at the same time dropping a shilling in his hand.

The lad stared with astonishment, which was not unmixed with alarm.

A few words from Peace soon reassured him.

“But ye’ve been ’nation quiet all the day though,” said the lad, with a broad grin.

“People generally are quiet when they are asleep, my lad,” was the ready rejoinder.

“Ugh! ’spose so.”

Peace did not want to have further parley. His purpose was served, and he therefore proceeded on his journey.