Читать книгу Force and Fraud - Ellen Davitt - Страница 8

Very little excitement was, at any time, required to collect a crowd about the bar of The Wild Boar, the frequenters of which place were generally sufficiently attracted by the various beverages it afforded. Drinking seemed to be the vocation of the whole neighbourhood and, although there was an ‘ordinary’ at a stated hour, at which substantial fare was set forth, the consumption of viands was by no means equal to that of liquids. The proportion which Falstaff’s ‘pennyworth of bread’ bore to the inordinate ‘quantity of sack’, may give some idea of the manners and customs of the establisment’s habitues.

Either from courtesy or custom, The Wild Boar was called an ‘Hotel’ but such a place in England would have been merely designated a ‘Public House’; in Scotland, it would have received the still more appropriate appellation of a ‘Tippling House’. And at The Wild Boar everybody did tipple – not even excepting some grave magistrates and a few other dignitaries, who should have known better. In fact, the only exceptions were ‘a lot of slow fellows who had taken the pledge’ – for such they were generally termed; but as the pledge was generally broken, the exceptions to the prevailing rule of intoxication were few indeed.

The bar of The Wild Boar had originally occupied a very small space, but as the population increased, and their propensities became more confirmed, a partition was removed. By adding another room, extra accommodation was afforded, and thus a little quarrelling and crowding around the counter were avoided. A couple of pillars, supporting the ceiling were placed where the partition had stood, and against one of these a large stove had been fixed. By the side of this, numerous guests would congregate, in wet weather to dry their feet, and at all seasons to help themselves to hot water, when such might be required to dilute their potations. By this stove, winter and summer, early and late, was seated a modern Bardolph; perhaps the landlord fancied that he was giving proof of his own hospitality in suffering the perpetual presence of this drunken individual; although the very few rational beings who saw him, shuddered at the state to which a man may reduce himself when he ‘puts an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains’.

But at the moment to which this portion of our story refers, there was other excitement than that afforded by nobblers, for a murdered man lay in the house, on whose body an inquest was about to be held! No drinking was going on in that chamber, and perhaps for the first time in his presence; for he had been a good customer during his life time – and was so even now – for what so natural as that his acquaintance should require a stimulant after such a sight?

“Here comes Harry Saunders! He looks quite flabbergasted; and well he may, for he has lost a good master,” exclaimed Mine Host.

“Shut up, Drainwell; McAlpin was never good but to fellows like you,” replied the most abstemious of the group.

The entrance of Saunders probably prevented an angry argument, for even the humblest labourer who had once served the murdered man was now invested with a kind of interest.

“Have a nobbler, Harry?” and “Come, Saunders, I’ll shout,” cried a couple of the bystanders in a breath.

“Get out of the way. Is it drinking I’m thinking of whilst the poor master lies dead in the house?” said Harry, as he pushed through the crowd, and hastened to the chamber where lay the body of his late employer.

When McAlpin was about to start on his last earthly journey, Harry Saunders had brought out his horse, as well as that of Mr Silverton, for they had ridden forth together. The labourer was therefore considered as an important witness, as he might be likely to give some account of his master’s apparent health on that morning as well as the several details connected with the saddle bags and other accoutrements.

Everybody felt convinced that Saunders would speak the truth no matter who might be implicated; and so, doubtless, would Pierce Silverton, who had likewise been summoned to attend the inquest. There was no reason to suspect either of these individuals as guilty of the deed.

Mr Silverton was the last of the two to be in the company of the deceased, but another person voluntarily came forward, and stated that he had met Mr McAlpin after Mr Silverton had parted with him.

“He was then riding at a brisk pace,” said Mr Dixon, “and as I thought he seemed in haste, I only bade him Good Morning. He answered me in rather a surly tone: but that was his way. Afterwards I overtook Mr Silverton, and recollect saying to him that Mr McAlpin did not seem in the best of tempers. He replied, ‘No, he has lost a great deal of money lately by some mining shares.’ Mr Silverton asked me where I met him and, when I named the spot, he said ‘I did not think he could have got so far.’ This was on the open plain, about three miles from the place where his body was found.”

Mr Silverton and Mr Dixon corroborated each other’s statements, but no light was thrown on the mystery either by their evidence, or by that of Saunders.

It was supposed that McAlpin, after meeting Mr Dixon, had crossed a portion of the plain, which was covered with scrub, amongst which some person lay in ambush awaiting his approach. From a wound on the back of the head, the murdered man had apparently been stunned. Being a crack-shot, he had probably seized his revolver, which he always carried when travelling, but it might have been knocked out of his hand, as the right wrist bore the mark of a heavy blow.

The death-wound, however, was in the centre of the throat, and had evidently been inflicted by a large knife.

A surgeon, who was present at the inquest, said it was his opinion that at the time the stab was given McAlpin’s head had fallen back; probably he was faint from the effects of the previous blow. The surgeon said that death must immediately have followed the wound caused by the knife, although there might previously have been a struggle. He also thought the assassin must have been shorter in stature than his victim, the knife having penetrated in an upward direction.

Whether the murder had been committed for the purpose of robbery or not remained a matter of doubt. Mr Silverton and Harry Saunders, who were both acquainted with the habits of the deceased, said he seldom travelled with much money on his person. But of this circumstance his murderer would probably have been unaware. A cheque book was found in his pocket; watch there was none – but, when someone suggested it had been stolen, Harry Saunders said his master had broken the glass as he was mounting his horse that day, and given him the watch to take back into the house, which he immediately did. Therefore if the murderer had been led to the commission of the crime from a love of gain, he could not have been greatly enriched.

The motive of revenge seemed not improbable, McAlpin having been an exacting landlord, and a tyrannical master, and consequently, an unpopular character.

Nevertheless, a feeling of deep indignation at the savage deed, if not one of regret for the victim, was expressed. A verdict of ‘Wilful murder by some person or persons unknown’ was unhesitatingly returned, after which resolution the jurors adjourned to the dining-room of The Wild Boar, to restore their nerves by such stimulants as their various tastes might suggest.