Читать книгу The Greatest Murder Mysteries - G.A. Henty Edition - G. A. Henty - Страница 30

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It was two o'clock in the morning; Miss Harmer was at her devotions. Half her nights were so spent. Not that she felt any more need for prayer than she had formerly done, nor that she had one moment's remorse or compunction concerning the course she had adopted; in that respect she was in her own mind perfectly justified. He whom she had looked up to for so many years for counsel and advice, he who to her represented the Church, had enjoined her to act as she had done, had assured her that she was so acting for the good of the Church, and that its blessing and her eternal happiness were secured by the deed; and she did not for an instant doubt him. The only moment that she had wavered, the only time she had ever questioned whether she was doing right, was when Polly Ashleigh had so vividly described the chamber, and when it had seemed to her that the secret was in the course of being revealed by dreams. She thought it altogether natural and right that the estate of her Catholic ancestors—the estate which her elder brother had actually devised to the Church, and which had been only diverted from that destination by what she considered an actual interposition of the evil one himself—should go as they had intended. So that she never questioned in her own mind the right or justice of the course she had taken.

Miss Harmer rose at night to pray, simply because she had been taught in the stern discipline of the convent in which she had been brought up and moulded to what she was, that it was right to pass a part of the night in prayer, and she had never given up the custom. And, indeed, it was not merely from the force of custom that she made her devotions; for she prayed, and prayed earnestly, and with all her strength, prayed for the increase and triumph of the Church, that all nations and people might be brought into its fold, and that God would show forth His might and power upon its enemies. On this night she was more wakeful than usual, for the wind was blowing strongly round the old walls of Harmer Place, and sounded with a deep roar in its great chimneys. This was always pleasant music to her; for she, like her dead brothers, loved the roar and battle of the elements, and the fierce passionate spirit within her seemed to swell and find utterance in the burst of the storm.

Suddenly she paused in the midst of her devotions; for amidst the roar and shriek of the wind she thought she heard the wild cry of a person in distress. She listened awhile; there was no repetition of the sound, and again she knelt, and tried to continue her prayers; but tried in vain: she could not divest herself of the idea that it was a human cry, and she again rose to her feet. Stories she had heard of burglaries and robbers came across her. She knew that there was a good deal of valuable plate in the house; and then the thought, for the first time, occurred to her, that perhaps it was her sister's voice that she had heard. She did not hesitate an instant now, but went to a table placed against the bed on which lay two pistols: curious articles to be found in a lady's bedroom, and that lady more than seventy years old. But Miss Harmer was prepared for an emergency like this. For the last year Father Eustace had been warning her of the danger of it; not perhaps that he had any idea that a burglary would actually be attempted, but he wished to be resident in the house, and to this, with her characteristic obstinacy when she had once made up her mind to anything, she refused to assent. The Harmers' chaplains she said never had been resident; there was a house in the village belonging to them, which they had built specially for their chaplains to reside in, and which they had so inhabited for more than a hundred years, and she did not see why there should be any change now. Father Eustace had urged that the sisters slept in a part of the building far removed from the domestics, and that if the house were entered by burglars they might not be heard even if they screamed ever so loud.

"I am not likely to scream, although I am an old woman," Miss Harmer had answered grimly; and the only result of Father Eustace's warning had been, that Miss Harmer had ordered a brace of her brother's pistols to be cleaned and loaded, and placed on the table at her bedside; and it was the duty of the gardener to discharge and reload these pistols every other morning, so that they might be in perfect order if required.

Miss Harmer's pistols were rather a joke among the servants; and yet they all agreed that if the time ever did come when she would be called upon to use them, the stern old woman would not hesitate or flinch for a moment in so doing.

So with a pistol in one hand, and a candle in the other, Miss Harmer went out of her door and along the short corridor which led to her sister's bedroom—a strange gaunt figure, in a long white dress covering her head—in fact a nun's attire, which she put on when she prayed at night, and from underneath which the stiff white frills of her cap bristled out strangely. She walked deliberately along, for she believed that she was only deceiving herself, and that the cry which she had thought she heard was only a wilder gust of wind among the trees. When she reached her sister's door, she paused and listened. Then she started back, for within she could hear low murmured words in men's voices, and then a strange stifled cry: she hesitated but for one moment, to deliberate whether she should go back to fetch the other pistol—then that strange cry came up again, and she threw open the door and entered. She was prepared for something, but for nothing so terrible as met her eyes. The room was lighted by the two candles which still burned in a little oratory at one end of the room before a figure of the Virgin; a chair lay overturned near it, and it was evident that Angela Harmer had, like her sister, been engaged at her devotions when her assailants had entered the room, and when she had given that one loud cry which had at last brought her sister to her assistance. But all this Cecilia Harmer did not notice then, her eyes were fixed on the group in the middle of the room.

There, in a chair, her sister was sitting, a man, standing behind it, held her there; another was leaning over her, doing something—what her sister could not see; a third stood near her, seemingly giving directions; all had black masks over their faces.

Angela Harmer was a pitiful sight: her white nun's dress was all torn and disarranged; her cap was gone; her thin grey hair hung down her shoulders; her head and figure were dripping wet—she having fainted from pain and terror, and having been evidently recovered by pouring the contents of the water-jug over her, for the empty jug lay on the ground at her feet. Her face was deadly pale with a ghastly expression of terror and suffering, made even more horrible to see, by a red handkerchief which one of the ruffians had stuffed into her mouth as a gag.

It was a dreadful sight, and Miss Harmer gave a loud cry when she saw it. She rushed forward to her sister's aid, discharging as she did so, almost without knowing it, her pistol at the man nearest to her. As she fired, there was a volley of deep oaths and fierce exclamations; the one who was holding Angela Harmer, with a jerk sent the chair in which she was sitting backwards, bringing her head with fearful force against the floor. There was a rush to the door; one of the robbers struck Cecilia Harmer a violent blow on the head with the butt end of a heavy pistol which he held in his hand, stretching her insensible on the ground; and then the three men rushed downstairs, and through the hall window, by which they had entered; across the grounds—but more slowly now, for one was lagging behind—and out into the road.

There in the lane a horse and light cart were standing, the horse tied up to a gate. Two of them jumped at once into the cart. "Jump up, mate!" the shorter of the two said, and with the exception of fierce oaths of disappointment, it was the first word which had been spoken since Cecilia Harmer had entered the room. "Jump up, mate! we have no time to lose."

"I can't," the man said; "that she-devil has done for me."

"You don't say that," the other said, getting out of the cart again. "I thought she had touched you by the way you walked, but I fancied it was a mere scratch. Where is it?"

"Through the body," the man said, speaking with difficulty now, for it was only by the exercise of almost superhuman determination that he had succeeded in keeping up with the others.

"Well, you are a good plucked 'un, mate," the man said, admiringly. "Here, Bill, lend me a hand to get him into the cart."

The other man got down, and the two lifted their almost insensible companion into the cart, laid him as tenderly as they could in the straw at the bottom, and then, jumping in themselves, drove off down the hill as fast as the horse could gallop. This speed they kept up until they were close to Canterbury; and then they slackened it, and drove quietly through the town, not to excite the suspicions of such policemen as they passed in the streets. When clear of the town, they again put the horse to his fullest speed. Once, after going three or four miles, they drew up, where a little stream ran under the road. Here one of them fetched some water, and sprinkled it on the face of the wounded man, who was now insensible. They then poured some spirits, from a flask one of them carried, between his lips, and he presently opened his eyes and looked round.

"Cheer up, mate; you will do yet," one said, in a tone of rough kindness.

The wounded man shook his head.

"Yes, yes, you will soon be all right again, and we shan't drive so fast now we are quite safe. There, let's have a look at your wound."

They found that, as he had said, he was hit in the body. The wound had almost ceased bleeding now, and there was nothing to be done for it. With an ominous shake of the head, they remounted the cart, and drove gently on.

"This is a bad job, Bill."

"A —— bad job," the other said, with an oath; "about as bad as I ever had a hand in. Who would have thought that old cat would have held out against that? I know I could not have done it."

"No, nor I either. I would have split on my own mother before I could have stood that. I am afraid it is all up with him," and he motioned towards the man at the bottom of the cart.

The other nodded.

"What are we to do with him, Schoolmaster?"

"We must leave him at Parker's, where we got the cart. He can't be taken any farther. I will ask him." And he stopped the cart, and told the wounded man, who was conscious now, what they intended to do, and asked if he could suggest anything better.

He shook his head.

"He is a good fellow; he will make you comfortable, never you fear."

The man seemed now to want to ask a question, and The Schoolmaster leaned over him to catch the words.

"Did you take anything?"

The man hesitated a little.

"Well, mate, truth is I did. I grabbed a watch and chain, and a diamond cross, which were laying handy on the table."

The wounded man looked pleased.

"I am glad of that; they will think it is only a common burglary. I don't think the woman will ever tell."

"I don't think she will," the other said, carelessly. "I expect it was too much for her, and Bill threw her over mortal hard. I thought it a pity at the time, but I don't know now that it was not for the best. The old fool, why did she give us all that trouble, when one word would have settled the whole business."

"Do you think we are safe?" the wounded man asked.

"Safe! aye; we are safe enough. We shall drive into the place the same side we went out, and no one will suspect us honest countrymen of being London cracksmen."

Nor would any one have done so.

After passing through Canterbury, they had taken disguises from the bottom of the cart, and even had it been light no one would have guessed they were not what they seemed—countrymen going into early market. The shorter one was in a shooting jacket and gaiters, and looked like a farmer's son; the other had on a smock-frock and a red handkerchief round his neck, and with his big slouching figure looked exactly like a farm labourer.

They drove along at a steady pace for another two hours. They had some time since left the main road, to avoid the towns of Sittingbourne and Chatham, and they were now in the lanes and byways skirting Rochester. The man called Bob was a native of Chatham, and knew all the country well. It was nearly six o'clock, and was still pitch dark, and since they had left Canterbury they had not met a single person.

In a short time they entered the highroad again, about a mile on the London side of Rochester, and turned their tired horse's head back again in the direction of that town. They kept along this till the lights of Rochester were close to them, and then turned again from the main road down a narrow lane, and stopped at a house about a hundred yards from the road.

The morning was beginning to break now, not giving much light, but sufficient to show that it was a small house standing in a yard, which the sense of smell, rather than sight, at once told to be a tanyard.

There was a gate in the wall, which was unfastened, for it yielded easily when one of the men got down from the cart and pushed it; he then led the horse and cart in, and closed the gate after them, and then knocked at the door of the house with his hand. In a minute or two a man's head appeared at an upper window.

"Is it you, boys?" he asked.

"All right, Parker; make haste and come down as quickly as you can."

The door was soon opened, and a man came out—a big man, with a not dishonest face, respectably dressed, and evidently the master of the place.

"So you are come back?" he said. "I don't want to ask any questions, but have you done well?"

"No," was the answer; "as bad as bad can be. Our mate has got hurt—badly hurt, too."

"Where is he?"

"In the cart."

The man gave a long whistle.

"The devil he is! This is a pretty kettle of fish, upon my word. What is to be done?"

"He must be left here, Parker,—that's the long and short of it. There is not the least fear of his being traced here; we have never seen a soul since we left Canterbury."

"I don't suppose there is much fear," the man said gruffly; "but if he should be, I am done for."

"Not a bit of it, Parker; you have only to show the receipt we gave you, and stick to the story we agreed upon, and which happens to be true. Three men called upon you, and said that they wanted to hire a light cart for a day, and that they heard you let one out sometimes. You told them that as you did not know them, you could not trust the horse with strangers, and so they left thirty-five pounds in your hands as security,—that they brought back the cart in the morning, and said one of their number had fallen out and got hurt, and that you agreed to let him stay for a day or so till he got well; and that you did not find, till the other two men had left, that the one who remained had been wounded by a bullet."

Here a slight groan from the cart called their attention to it.

"But what on earth am I to do with him?"

"Put him up in one of the garrets. You don't keep a servant; there will be no one to know anything about it; and as for the pay, there is twenty-five pounds left in your hands, after taking the ten pounds for the hire of the trap—that will be enough for you, won't it?"

"Aye, aye," the man said. "I am not thinking of the money. I would not do it for ten times the money if I had the choice; as I have not, I would do it whether I am paid or not. The first thing is to get him upstairs."

Accordingly the three men lifted him out of the cart, and carried him as carefully as they could upstairs, and laid him on a bed. The tanner then summoned his wife, a respectable-looking woman, who was horrified at the sight of the pallid and nearly lifeless man upon the bed.

"Oh, William!" she said, bursting into tears, "and so it has come to this! Did I not agree to stop with you only on the condition that you had nothing more to do with this business beyond taking care of things, and keeping them hid till all search for them should be over? and did you not give me your solemn oath that you would do nothing else?"

"No more I have, Nancy," the man said; "no more I have, girl. I have had nothing to do with this job. I don't know what it is, or where it came off, no more than a babe, though no doubt we shall hear all about it soon enough. But here the man has come home in our cart, and here he must be, unless you want him put out into one of the sheds."

"No, no, William; we must do what we can for him, but that is little enough. He looks dying, and he ought to have a doctor. But what can we say to him?—how can we explain how he got hurt?—who can we trust? Oh, William, this is a bad business!" and the woman wrung her hands despairingly.

The wounded man made a slight movement, as if he would speak.

"What is it, mate?" the man called The Schoolmaster said, leaning over him.

The wounded man murmured, with a great effort, the words—

"Dr. Ashleigh, Canterbury."

"Dr. Ashleigh, of Canterbury," the tanner said, when the other repeated the words aloud. "I have heard of him as a clever man and a kind one; but how can we trust in him more than another?"

The wounded man tried to nod his head several times to express that he might be trusted.

"You are quite sure?" the tanner asked.

Strong and positive assent was again expressed.

"You know him?"

"Yes, yes."

"Will he come?"

"Yes," again.

"Well, it must be risked," the tanner said; "the man must not die like a dog here, with no one to see after him. Perhaps when the ball is out he may get round it yet. I will take my other horse, and ride over at once. I have been over there several times to buy bark, so there will be nothing out of the way in it. Don't be uneasy," he said, kindly, to the wounded man. "You will be as safe here as you would be in your own place, and I will get the doctor to you before night. Now, boys, you go and put on the changes you brought down from London with you, and get off by the next train. I will saddle up, and start at once. By the way, what name shall I say to the doctor?"

A sharp pang of pain passed over the wounded man's face.

"Come, Bill," The Schoolmaster said, with rough kindness, "we don't want to hear the mate's name; so we will be off at once. Goodbye, mate. It is a bad job; but keep up your spirits, and you will soon get round again. You are a good plucked one, and that's all in your favour;" and the two men, with this parting, went off to re-disguise themselves previous to their starting for London.

The tanner again leant over the bed, and the wounded man said, with a great effort, "Tell him Robert, Sophy's husband, is dying, and wants to speak with him."

The tanner repeated the words over, to be sure he had them right; he then, assisted by his wife, cut the clothes from Robert, so as to move him as little as possible; they placed him carefully in the bed; and the tanner gave his wife instructions to give him a little weak brandy-and-water from time to time, and a few spoonsful of broth in the middle of the day, if he could take it. He then collected the clothes that he had taken off Robert Gregory, carried them downstairs, and burned them piece by piece in the kitchen fire.

After that he went out into the yard. It was not a large yard, but there were several pits with the skins lying in the tan, and there was a pile of oak bark in one corner. On one side of the yard was a long shed, in which some of the other processes were carried on; on the other side was the stable. The tanner next took out the straw from the cart, which was all saturated with blood, and brought some fresh straw from the stable; this he mixed with it, making it into a pile, and fetching a brand from the fire, set it alight, and watched it until it was entirely consumed; he then scattered the ashes over the yard. Next he carefully washed the cart itself, put fresh straw into the bottom, wheeled it into the shed, and cleaned down the horse which had been out all night; and then, having put everything straight, he saddled the other horse, mounted it, and started for Canterbury.