Читать книгу British Murder Mysteries: J. S. Fletcher Edition (40+ Titles in One Volume) - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 22

Table of Contents

Taffendale went back to the house, stripped off his smoke-blackened clothes, and plunged into a cold bath. An hour later, the sun being then well risen above the woods, he walked into the kitchen, spick-and-span, from his well-groomed head to his polished boots, to find the lime-burners and the farm hands busied over the breakfast which he had told his housekeeper to prepare for them. The occasion might have been one of rejoicing rather than of sorrow, for Taffendale had been prodigal in his orders, and the men were feasting royally. They stared open-mouthed at him as he strode up to the top of the long table at which they sat.

"Now, my lads," he said, "its no use crying over spilt milk. What's done is done, and it can't be helped now. What's more important is what is to be done. I want every sign and vestige of that fire cleared out of my stackyard to-day. Set to work on it as soon as you've had your breakfasts, and go at it with a heart and a half! There'll be drinkings for you morning and afternoon, and there'll be your dinner at one o'clock and your supper at six. Go at it, all of you—lime-burners and all. And when it's done there'll be a sovereign apiece for every man and lad. What I want," he paused as a murmur of gratification rolled round the the table—"what I want is to see my premises cleared of every trace of what happened last night. As for those that caused it to happen—leave them to me."

Then he strode out of the kitchen followed by voluble promises, and went to the parlour, where Rhoda, cowed and terrified by the events of the night, sat awaiting him. Before she could speak he laid his hand firmly on her shoulder.

"Now, my girl," he said, with a note of purpose and sternness in his voice which she had never noticed before, "I want you to listen to me. Maybe this has all come about because—well, because we didn't think, because we let our feelings get too much for us. But I'm not the man to be beaten down by what they call public opinion. When I decide to go on with a thing I go on with it against the likes or dislikes of anybody. And—you'll stay in this house."

Rhoda stared at him with amazed eyes.

"After—last night?" she faltered.

"Because of last night," said Taffendale. "Because of last night. I'll let whoever's interested see that I care naught for what anybody says. You're burned out of house and home, and here you'll stay. My housekeeper's also my cousin, and she'll play propriety and act chaperone and all the rest of the damned nonsense. And if anybody says a word, then they'll have to settle with me. Now I'm going to begin my reckoning with those devils in Martinsthorpe, and before I've done with them they shall wish that they'd died before ever their mothers bore them!"

Without more words Taffendale went away, saddled his horse with his own hands, and set out for the market-town and his solicitor. And so that he might fill his mind full of the enormity of the misdeeds of the stang-riders, he went round by Cherry-trees, to see the exact amount of damage they had done there.

Early as the hour was, Cherry-trees was surrounded by an eager and exicted crowd. There were men there who should have been at work in the fields, there were whispering and awe-struck women, there were children whose mothers had roused them from their slumbers with news of a great event. And there, talking gravely with the Martinsthorpe policeman, was the under-steward, one of the more considerable farmers of the village, who turned a troubled face on Taffendale as he rode up. He and his companion advanced to meet him; the other folk gathered in knots and stared at him furtively, wondering at his set face and the glitter in his eyes.

"This is a bad job, Mr. Taffendale," said the under-steward. "A bad, bad job, sir."

Taffendale made no immediate answer. He reined in his horse and looked around him. The picture of his own devastated stackyard was fresh in his mind, but here was one of still greater desolation. For Cherry-trees was burnt to the ground. House, outbuildings, sheds, all were destroyed; the very trees in the garden and orchard were shrivelled and twisted and blackened. There was naught to be seen in the triangle which Perris's holding had filled but heaps of seared masonry and grey ashes. And from the low murmurs and chance words which he had heard as he sat watching, he knew that such live-stock as had been left on the place had perished in the flames.

"Aye, it's a bad job, indeed!" said the village constable, desirous of showing his agreement with the under-steward. "I never heard tell o' such doin's."

Taffendale looked down at both men with scornful eyes and a curling lip. He laughed and they glanced at him wonderingly.

"And I suppose you could do naught to stop it?" he said, looking the policeman up and down.

"Me, sir! What could I do?" the man asked, genuinely surprised. "What's one man against a lot such as was out last night? They'd have knocked me on the head as soon as look at me!"

"But you represent the majesty of the Law," said Taffendale, sneeringly. "I should have thought they'd all have run away if you'd held your hand up."

The policeman's face became sullen, and the under-steward looked displeased.

"This isn't a time for joking, Mr. Taffendale," he said. "The constable's right—one man couldn't do aught against a mob like that. No, nor six men neither!"

"And I suppose there weren't any peaceable and law-abiding folk in Martinsthorpe village to stop those that were riotous and lawless?" exclaimed Taffendale. "You don't mean to tell me—and I shouldn't believe you if you did—that all the men and lads in Martinsthorpe joined in burning this place down and in burning my stacks? Why didn't you two get the better-disposed together, and stop the badly-disposed? If you'd liked, you could have prevented them from even coming up that hill."

The policeman looked uncomfortable, but the under-steward's face glowed to a dull red of resentment.

"It's not my place to keep order," he said. "It was none of my business!"

"No, it was nobody's business," sneered Taffendale. "Men like you were to sit at home, doing naught, while rascals and scoundrels were burning your neighbours' property Your business By God!—I'll tell you what's going to be my business. Come here you!" he cried, raising his voice, and waving his hand to the folk gathered about the grey heaps. "Come here, and hear what I've got to say, and go down to Martinsthorpe yonder and tell everybody. Tell them that Mark Taffendale says he'll neither rest day nor night till every man, woman, lad, lass, that had hand or part in last night's work has smarted for it! Tell them that he'll spend every penny of the sixty thousand pound he's worth to bring them to justice Tell them that he'll sell his land and lime-pits if need be to find money to punish 'em! Tell them that when the law's done with them he'll start in with his punishment—he'll follow them wherever they go; he'll make 'em marked men and marked women; he'll make them so that they'll be thankful to be thrown into a gaol for shelter, and a poorhouse for food; he'll make them wish that their right hands had been cut off before ever they set out up yon hill last night! Tell them that if there's a halter about, they'd better use it before Mark Taffendale's hand is on them—tell them—"

The under-steward lifted his arm, and laid trembling fingers on Taffendale's wrist.

"Hush, Mr. Taffendale, hush!" he said, "Haven't you—haven't you heard?"

"Heard—what?" demanded Taffendale, shaking off the hand.

"We were going to tell you. There was a man killed last night. Young John Robey. And," continued the under-steward, lowering his voice, and gazing fearfully around him at the wide-eyed and open-mouthed crowd, "they say, Mr. Taffendale, they say it was you killed him. You were seen to strike him down."

Taffendale started. He remembered the blow which he had dealt out to the ringleader; he remembered the savage delight with which he had felt it go home, and had seen the man crumple up across the glowing fire over which the effigies were burning. And he remembered, too, the stain of blood which he had found on the road when he had set out in the growing light.

"He was a wild young fellow, young John Robey, it's true," said the under-steward, "but he was the only support his mother had, and they say he was always very good to her. However, they carried him away dead from your place, Mr. Taffendale."

"There'll have to be an inquest," observed the policeman.

Taffendale turned his horse's head.

"You always know where to find me," he remarked.

Without further word or sign he rode slowly off towards the market-town; behind him arose growls and murmurs of resentment. And one woman more defiant and courageous than the rest, raised her fist, and shook it in his face as he passed a group which stood at the corner of the high-road glaring at him from under their close-drawn shawls.

"This is what's come o' carryin' on wi' Perris's wife!" she shouted. "Tak' yer black face out o' honest folks' sight, ye ugly devil!"

Taffendale rode on and made no sign. He had no doubt that he had killed Robey, and the news had sobered him. But he had no fear of any consequences; he had struck the man in defence of his own life and property, and he knew he would go scatheless. If twenty Robeys and Sal Bennetts had been killed he would still have gone forward in his mission of vengeance until every participant had been made to feel his power. And when he walked into his solicitor's office in the market-town he was still as angry and as resolute in his determination to punish the stang-riders as when he rode off from the Lime-pits.

The solicitor let Taffendale pour out his wrath and utter his denunication before he himself said a word. He even jotted down Taffendale's instructions without comment. They were plain and precise instructions, for Taffendale always had clear notions of his own. At once—that very day if possible—there must be printed and posted bills in big type, offering considerable rewards for information which would lead to the conviction of all persons concerned in the affair of the previous evening. Taffendale, in his anger, named ridiculous sums; the solicitor said nothing, and made a memorandum of them.

"I know the breed!" said Taffendale, savagely. "Most of 'em would sell their own mothers for a pint of ale. Offer that reward, and they'll all be tumbling over each other. I'll have 'em hunted down till I've laid every Jack and Jill by the heels!"

The solicitor, an old school-mate of Taffendale's, turned in his chair and put the tips of his fingers together.

"Finished, Mark?" he asked quietly.

"I've finished," answered Taffendale.

"Then let me talk awhile. War," observed the solicitor, "is a bad thing between enemies, but it is worse between friends. It is horrible between nations, but it is hell between two halves of one nation."

"Talk plainly," growled Taffendale.

"The internecine war in the United States," continued the solicitor, "was necessarily much more dreadful than any war between the United States and say, Spain, could be, because it is, I say, hell, and very bad hell for war to spring up in a community, whether that community is large or small. Well, in its way, Mark, a war in a village is as bad as a war between two halves of a nation."

"Damn it, why all this jargon?" exclaimed Taffendale. "What are you driving at?"

The solicitor tapped the sheet of paper on which he had scribbled his memoranda.

"I think it would be foolish to carry out these instructions," he said. "Now, just be quiet and listen to me. Who started all this?"

Taffendale frowned

"It's no good denying it, Mark—you've been foolish about Mrs. Perris. I don't want to know the truth about your private affairs, but"—he paused and shook his head—"there'd have been no stangriding at Martinsthorpe last night if it hadn't been for you. That's true!"

"Before God, she's as innocent as—as I am!" exclaimed Taffendale. "Foolish we may have been in meeting, but there's naught wrong."

"All the same, Perris left home," said the solicitor. "And folks talked. And as I say, the stangriding would never have taken place if it hadn't been for you. There's nothing illegal in riding the stang—it's an ancient custom. And if you want my opinion, the fires resulted not from design but from accident. The places were not set on fire deliberately."

Taffendale's face darkened, and his mouth became more obstinate.

"I know what I've lost," he said sullenly.

"And I know that you're insured to whatever amount you've lost," said the solicitor, with quiet firmness. "Take my advice, Mark. Don't set all Martinsthorpe against you because of your sheer desire for revenge. Let the law deal with these people: don't you interfere. Remember, there's a man dead."

"They couldn't prove that I killed him," muttered Taffendale. "It was a mixed-up fight by that time. I have bruises on me."

"I don't think there 'll be any need to prove anything or disprove anything. But I know what the people will think and say," replied the solicitor. "Come, there's enough bad blood—don't make more. Let things quieten down. Just remember—village folk have a rough and rude sense of justice, and they wouldn't have carried out that old Pagan practice of stang-riding if they hadn't felt they were bound to protest against your carrying on, as they call it, with another man's wife."

"You'd better throw up the law and take to the pulpit," sneered Taffendale.

"Not I! I'm no preacher, and I'm telling you what's best for you. Now, Mark, be sensible. Let things quieten down. And, Mark, take a bit more advice. Get Mrs. Perris home to her own people. You say you've taken her into your house. That's foolish. Get her away from it!" said the solicitor. "Come, be sensible."

Taffendale smote the desk at his side with a heavy fist.

"By God, then, I won't!" he cried. "The woman came to me for help, and I helped her. It wasn't my fault nor hers that we—that we fell in love with each other. She was in trouble then, and she's in trouble now—she hasn't a roof above her head—I won't turn her away from mine. Let folk say what they choose—there's my housekeeper there, and she's cousin of mine as well as housekeeper. Evil to them that think it! She stays there, I tell you."

"And—for how long, Mark?" asked the solicitor.

"Till—till I hear that that fellow Perris is dead, or till seven years is up," answered Taffendale, in a low voice.

"Ah! Then—you'd marry her?"

"I'd—I will marry her if the chance comes!" said Taffendale. "But—no talk of turning her out of Limepits. I'll go out myself first. I'm not going to see a defenceless woman treated that way—especially if—well, if I've been anything like the cause of it."

The solicitor made no reply, and Taffendale suddenly stretched across the table, and seizing the memoranda tore the paper to shreds.

"Very well, I'll take your advice," he said. "I'll do naught against the villagers. But there's one matter you can attend to—you'll do it better than I shall. See that yon young Robey is properly buried, and pay all expenses, and let his mother know that there 'll be a pound a week for her as long as she lives. I wish to God it hadn't happened—but it's done now, and there's naught can undo it."