Читать книгу Force and Fraud - Ellen Davitt - Страница 10

Two days of unusual excitement had passed away, and on the third the population in general began to suffer a recovery. The public mind being in this state, all business was out of the question; and when someone proposed a visit to the spot where the body had been discovered, the idea was adopted without a dissenting voice. Therefore, after fortifying themselves with the usual stimulants, away some dozen enterprising individuals started from the hotel of The Wild Boar.

On their way they met Harry Saunders, who was saluted by one of the party with the remark, “Well, Harry lad, thee’ll have to look out for another maister, and I hope thee’ll get a better; Mac was a gruff un.”

“Whate’er he was, he’s dead and gone; and I won’t hear a word agin the dead.”

“But what’s thee going to do for a billet, lad?”

“Stay wi’ the young mistress, to be sure, and maybe I shall have a young master one o’ ise days. There’s a gentleman I know of who – but, hang it, tisn’t fair to blab.”

Harry was not much prepared to reveal his secret; the softer emotions that a love tale might call forth, being stifled by the more exacting interest attached to murder. The merits and the demerits of the deceased, the inquest, and the funeral, were all discussed; the male gossips almost rivalling the good wives whose taste for the sensational had been exhibited by the sick-bed of the orphan girl.

Amongst the party was a member of the Melbourne police who, perhaps, was not averse to gather any scattered hints afforded by local associations; for he well knew that the character of every individual in the neighbourhood would be freely canvassed.

Very little reticence in this respect was observed; a great many remarks being made which might have implicated several individuals. Fortunately for them they were, at the time of the murder, hundreds of miles from the scene.

The experienced eye of the official at once detected that there had been a struggle at the scene of the crime. The grass adjacent to the spot where the body was found was rooted up – as if by the scuffling feet; several twigs were also broken from the hardy scrub – some of which were clotted with blood, and to which adhered particles of human hair. Some of these hairs were raven black, slightly mixed with grey – easily identified as having belonged to the victim; but others scattered about were of a lighter colour. The dying man had probably grasped at the locks of his assailant, as several brown hairs had also been found between the cold and stiffened fingers.

McAlpin’s revolver was discovered amongst the branches of the scrub; but the unerring and strong hand of the Highlander had been equally unavailing, as the weapon was still loaded. It was thought that McAlpin could not have been on horseback at the time of the attack, for the animal was found quietly grazing at a little distance. Perhaps, on that last journey his master had led him down to the creek; the heat of the day having no doubt rendered the horse, as well as his rider, extremely thirsty. This circumstance was remarked on: McAlpin, though harsh to his fellow man, was merciful to his beast.

“Weel, weel – his act was of mercy, and the Lord grant it to him now,” exclaimed an old shepherd, who had accompanied the Laird from his native land, and followed his fortunes ever since.

The policeman then examined the saddle-bags, which had evidently been ransacked. They contained a change of linen, but nothing else of any value whatever. The murderer might have been a thief, although he had not proved himself on this occasion a horse-stealer.

Souvenirs of the occurrence were sought by many of the party, the blood-stained twigs and scattered hairs forming a matter of dispute; but the latter were claimed by the official as his right.

“Hallo! What’s this?” exclaimed one of the bystanders, as he stooped to pick up a large Bowie-knife.

“That has taken his life, the Lord grant that I may live to see the murderer swing one o’ these days,” cried the faithful shepherd.

The knife was stained with blood, and on the handle was a small silver plate, engraved with the letters U.L. With eager curiosity, the crowd pressed forward to obtain a sight of the fatal weapon, which a few continued to touch; and then they went through pantomimic gestures, indicative of those the murderer might have assumed.

The official sternly bade them to stand off. Anyone might have taken him for a naturalist, who had caught a delicate butterfly and was apprehensive lest the down, which rendered it so fair, should be brushed from its wings, so careful was he that the knife should not lose the stain that made it so foul.

“Stop a bit. Here’s something else,” exclaimed a keen sighted individual, as he drew forth a strip of linen from under the branch of the scrub. That also was polluted by a dark red stain; but it bore other distinguishing peculiarities. It was of fine lawn, something less than three-quarters of a yard in length, and a half-quarter in breadth; a selvedge running down one of the long sides, the other being frayed and ragged; the two ends were hemmed, and had a ribbed sort of border, the letters U.L. being marked in one corner. It was thus easy to perceive that this fragment of linen had once formed part of a pocket-handkerchief. This was also appropriated by the official and there were certain individuals in the crowd who envied him the possession of his treasures.