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On the second morning after the night of the stangriding Taffendale rose at an earlier hour than usual—rose, indeed, before any of his men and maids had left their beds—and going out to his stackyard looked about him. The great, square enclosure, flanked on one side by the long line of farm buildings, and on the other by a row of tall poplars which formed a well-known landmark over a wide stretch of the surrounding country, had been so carefully and zealously tidied up and set in order by the farm hands and the lime-burners that ii looked as if the departing tenant had left it swept and garnished for the incoming of his successor. There was not a grey ash nor a wisp of smoke-grimed straw left on all the wide surface; the men, in their zeal to carry out Taffendale's instructions, had even washed and brushed all trace of smoke and fire from the walls of the outbuildings and had lopped away from the poplars those lower branches which had been scorched by the leaping flames. Over all this erninently spick-and-span scene, which would now remain an empty space until the next harvest, ten months hence, refilled it, hung the clear blue of a frosty October morning sky, in the far horizon of which a red sun was slowly rising. And Taffendale, looking round again, laughed grimly, reflecting that where, only a few hours before, the whole yield of a good harvest, carefully garnered and housed against winter, had stood proudly under its thatch, there was now nothing but a neat and tidy stackyard—empty.

"But there's a different scene down at Cherry-trees, I'm thinking," he muttered to himself, with another cynical laugh. "Nobody 'II take the trouble to tidy things up there yet awhile."

And, half-unconsciously, he walked slowly up the steps of the granary and stood where he and his foreman had stood when the unholy shoutings of the stang-riders had been carried by the freshening wind to their ears. From the head of the steps Taffendale had often looked out across country, and had more than once noticed that from that elevation—the highest about the Limepits—there were only three signs of human habitation to be seen. To the south-west the square, battlemented head of Martinsthorpe church appeared over the tops of the elms and beeches which shut in the village; far away on the eastward the spire of another village church, renowned for its height, rose above the thick woods beyond Badger's Hollow. And in the middle foreground of the landscape stood Cherry-trees, a mean group of poor buildings when seen close at hand, but when viewed from some distance forming a pleasant patch of red and yellow against the prevalent green and grey.

This piece of colour was now gone. Taffendale saw the sturdy square tower in the near right, the sharp, slender spire in the far left, but the little farmstead was brought down to the level of the land on which it had stood: there was not so much as a ruinous wall, a shattered mass of gable-end to rise above the hedgerows. As he lingered there, he pictured the scene—the blackness, the litter, the refuse, the general untidiness and sense of squalor, and some dim and vague notion came into his mind that somewhere, at some time, he had read something about the abomination of desolation.

Desolate and black Cherry-trees lay until the nine days' wonder of its downfall was well-nigh over. Such participants in the stang-riding as could be identified had been duly prosecuted and lightly punished; the dead had been sat upon by a Coroner and a jury, and consigned to a quiet grave, and like all country matters the affair was beginning to simmer down from boiling point to a stagnant surface. The steward came upon the scene, and with the under-steward and various other folk of officialdom viewed the wreckage of the small homestead. And when he had viewed it he began to wonder what to do about the question presented to him. Was it worth while to rebuild the place? Cherry-trees, under Perris's tenancy, had some fifty or sixty acres of land attached to it; it so chanced that running alongside that land there was a holding of similar size which had been untenanted for half-a-year, and was not easy to let because the small house upon it was little better than an outbuilding and the outbuildings were ramshackle sheds. There was no possibility that Abel Perris would ever come back, and it was out of the question that his wife, or widow, whichever Rhoda might be, should continue to farm land on which she could not live; why not, then, reflected the steward, throw the two small holdings into one and make a farm of a hundred acres and build a new farmhouse? After all, little farms and little farmers are a nuisance to themselves and to everybody.

While the steward, gazing on the black desolation of Cherry-trees, was reflecting on these things, Taffendale rode up the lane and paused to exchange greetings. He inquired what the steward's plans were, and the steward told him what was in his mind, and knowing him to be a practical man, asked his advice. Taffendale turned in his saddle and gazed across the acres which Perris had farmed and those of the holding adjacent to them. A sudden notion occurred to him.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said, with the directness of a man who makes up his mind quickly but once for all. "I'll take those hundred acres—at once."

The steward stared, and suddenly felt glad that Taffendale had come along. Then he laughed a little.

"Not content with all the land you've got?" he said pleasantly.

Taffendale shook his head in a fashion that signified neither assent nor dissent.

"It's not that," he said. "You know, I have land on this side of these two holdings, and I have land on the other side of them. I'll take both—the hundred odd acres of them—and link things up. I shall farm them better than any small farmer."

"Little doubt of that," observed the steward. "Very good. That shall be attended to at once. They're yours."

"But there are certain things you must do," said Taffendale. He turned again in his saddle and pointed to the ramshackle place which lay on the holding next to Cherry-trees. "That'll have to come down—every stick and stone," he added.

"Oh, of course. We'll have it down and the ground cleared at once," replied the steward.

"And as for this place, Cherry-trees," continued Taffendale, looking around him, "you'll build me here three good cottages for married labourers. I've three real good men now that want to marry, and if I've cottages for them I shall be able to keep them on. Real good cottages, mind you, with proper outhouses, and accommodation for pigs and fowls."

"Very well," said the steward, who knew what sort of tenant he was dealing with. "That shall be done, too. It's a capital idea to keep men that you know."

"And there's another thing," remarked Taffendale, edging his horse nearer to the ruins, "you'll have to see that there's a proper water supply here. Now, the situation of the old house was a good one; facing south, and convenient for the garden at the back, but I always noticed when I came here that the well was set between the yard and the fold—there's the remains of it, sticking up out of that pile of rubbish—and I'll lay anything that the water's not what it ought to be. I once did taste it, and it was my opinion that it was badly contaminated. You'll have to sink a new well, at a proper distance from the houses."

"Yes," replied the steward. "We'll do that also. In fact, as you take the whole lot, everything shall be thoroughly overhauled and put in order.'

"I'm particular about my men," said Taffendale. "If you want a model for the cottages, go and look at my lime-burners' places at the Limepits. But," he added, with a laugh, "they're on my own property."

"We'll make these as good," answered the steward. And he drove off, saying to the under-steward that Taffendale was a particular man and that they must be particular to please and humour him, for having once taken the land he would hold it as long as he lived, and they would be as sure of its proper and generous cultivation as of the rent, and, furthermore, be saved the troubles which arise from having little farmers of no capital, who put no money into their land and have hard work to pay for it, however much reduction they get.

"I'll have no more men of the stamp of Perris on this estate," said the steward, with decision. "I wonder where the man is!"

"That's what a goodish many hereabouts wonders, sir," replied the under-steward. "But," he added, with a sly chuckle, "we all know where his wife is—up yonder at the Limepits."

The steward, however, was not to be drawn into any discussion of local scandal or gossip. He remained indifferent to his satellite's obvious desire to talk.

"Mr. Taffendale's private affairs," he said, "are his—private affairs. If he chooses to give shelter to a woman who was burnt out of house and home, it is his own business. But Perris's disappearance is a public affair. It has a queer aspect."

"Aye, sir, and it isn't the only queer thing that's happened in this place of late," observed the under-steward. "There's a many folk hereabouts still asking themselves every day where yon Pippany Webster's disappeared to."

"Oh, the man ran away!" said the steward. "He just ran away."

The under-steward uttered inarticulate sounds of respectful dissent.

"Well, it's a queer thing if he did," he said. "I'll lay a crown to a penny piece yon Pippany Webster, sir, had never been five mile from Martinsthorpe since he was born, unless his mother ever carried him off for a jaunt, like, when he was a young child, for I'm very certain that he's never been away very far since he was a lad old enough to scare crows or lead a harvest cart. And besides that, his cottage has been examined by the police since he vanished, and they found what you might call a bit of a hoard in a secret place in an old cupboard—naught much, but two or three pieces of gold, and a matter of silver. A man like him would have taken his brass with him if he'd meant running away, sir."

"Well, that's certainly strange," said the steward. "Yes, yes, that seems very remarkable. But—where is he, then?"

"Nay, that's it," answered the under-steward. "Some, they thought he'd gone to his sister's, but his sister's heard naught of him. And he couldn't have 'listed, for they wouldn't have such a chap. And, of course, sir," he added, sinking his voice to a tone of dark and mysterious significance, "there is some in Martinsthorpe that thinks he's come to a bad end—happen done away with."

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the steward. "You don't mean to say that the people think the man was—murdered?"

"Well, done away with—put out of the way, like," replied the under-steward. "Yes, there's some goes far enough to say that."

"But—by whom?" asked the steward. "By whom?"

The under-steward, however, was not going to be definite; he had been brought up on the good old village principle that a hint and a suggestion are better than a direct charge, and that the wise stab folk in the back and only fools present honest weapons face to face. So he contented himself by remarking that no doubt there were those who could speak if they were minded to, and relapsed into silence until he and the steward reached the Dancing Bear and the pleasures of an afternoon dinner.

There are always folk in a village who can find time to lounge and idle away their time around whatever unusual operation is going on, and when the building operations began at Cherry-trees (to be rapidly pushed forward in view of the approaching winter) every fine afternoon found such gentlemen of leisure as the gamekeeper and the policeman, the village idler—by profession—and as many old gaffers as were past work but had strength to climb the hill, hanging about the place to see how masons and carpenters progressed. And there, too, but with different motives, constantly came Taffendale, intent on the due carrying out of his wishes in respect to the proper housing of his labourers.

The fine, dry weather of that autumn continued throughout October and November, and great progress was consequently made by the masons. It was a crisp day in December, and the walls were up and the carpenters at work on the roofs, when the sanitary inspector came with an expert in well-sinking to meet Taffendale and the under-steward in order to decide about the water-supply. Taffendale, on his own initiative, had caused the well which the Perrises had used to be examined and analysed; the result of the chemical investigations had proved its water to be contaminated by long filtration from the fold. That well, then, must be filled up, and another sunk. And the under-steward suddenly remembered that there had once been an attempt to sink a well at the side of the old house, in the little orchard which was still there, and he remarked that according to his recollection, the work was not carried to any great depth, and that possibly, if it were now continued, water might be found at a lower level.

"Here's the place," he said, leading the party around him to the spot where the remains of the old reaping-machine which Perris had placed above the well-cover still lay amidst a mass of bricks and mortar. "It might be a good idea to clear this off and see if it promises aught."

The expert in well-sinking agreed; water, he said, might have collected by that time, and if it had that would show that there was a likely spring. The under-steward called to some labourers and bade them clear away the rubbish. And so, for the first time since the night on which Perris had lifted it in the darkness, the cover of the old well was again laid bare.

The cavity beneath was black enough and odorous enough of damp and mud and slime when the rotting boards were lifted, and Taffendale turned up his nose.

"A likely place to get good water out of!" he said, with a sneer. "Better have it filled up like the other."

But the well-sinker shook his head. That was nothing, he said; the well must needs be like that, having been closed up for so many years; it could be made sweet and wholesome very quickly by exposure. The main thing was to find out if water was there, and he asked for a man, a ladder, and a lantern. The ladder and the lantern were quickly procured; the man not so readily. But suddenly one of the masons' labourers, a Martinsthorpe lad, stepped forward, smiling sheepishly.

"Here, gi' us ho'd o' t' lantern—I'll away down." he said. "I'm none afeard o' no owd wells."

The men standing about watched the youth of no fear descend rung by rung of the ladder into the blackness beneath. Although it had never been finished the well was of considerable depth, and those whose olfactory sense was not too delicate to prevent them from hanging over the brink saw the yellow light dwindle to a spark. Suddenly they heard a loud yell; the brave explorer came up the ladder with the speed of a sailor of the old days, and presented a white face and staring eyes as he flung himself on the lip of the cavity.

"Theer's—theer's a man down theer!" he gasped, with trembling lips. "A deeäd man! A—a body!"

Taffendale could not repress a sharp exclamation. He had suddenly thought of Perris, and the colour rushed into his face and out again, leaving him pale. Could it be that this was—Perris? And if so—

"What?" he said, pulling himself together. "A dead man! Nonsense—you're dreaming."

"Go down yoursen, then, mestur," said the explorer, who was still trembling. "I know what I saw. Onny on yer can see it, if ye'll tak' t' lantern and go down as far as I did. It's liggin' theer at t' bottom o' t' ladder—it's a wonder ye didn't set t' ladder on it."

The gamekeeper and the policeman, who usually appeared at the building in company, had just joined the group. Justice, who had heard Taffendale's sudden exclamation and seen him change colour, gave him a sharp glance.

"Now, I wonder whose body it is, Mr. Taffendale?" he said in the familiar fashion which Taffendale so much resented. "It'll be very interesting to find that out, sir."

Taffendale's cheek flushed angrily.

"Whosever body it is, it must be brought up," he said. "Here, policeman, this is your job. Go down and see what you can make out."

The policeman, who had just donned his carefully-brushed uniform and put on his white wool gloves, hung back, looking down his nose.

"I shall make a fine mess of myself going down there," he remarked grumblingly.

"You're paid to make a fine mess of yourself if occasion arises," said Taffendale sharply. "Here, give him that lantern."

When the policeman came up again his face had assumed an expression of official importance. He stepped off the ladder and rubbed his hands clear of mud.

"There's a body down there, right enough," he said. "It's a man's body. But its head and shoulders are in the slime at the bottom, so I couldn't see the features."

"It'll have to be brought up," said the under-steward. "Now, then, men—who'll go down with a rope?"

Half-an-hour later such folk as sat in the kichen of the Dancing Bear were galvanised into life by rare news.

"They've foun' Pippany Webster's body i' t' owd well at Cherry-trees! An' them 'at's seen it say 'at he were murdered first and thrown in afterwards. He were foun' stickin' t' mud, and he wor deeäd. An' they're bringin' t' corpse down here for t' Crowner's 'quest!"

XX

The gamekeeper, carrying his gun in the crook of his arm, followed the little group of corpse-bearers down the hill at a slight distance. He was thinking. He had watched Taffendale's face when, the body having been brought up from the well, everybody had recognised it as Pippany Webster's. He had watched it again as Taffendale mounted his horse to ride home. He had wondered at the obvious agitation in Taffendale's manner and expression; at the pallor in his countenance. He had kept apart, watching. Once Taffendale had given him a swift glance, and he had replied to it with a steady stare. Now Taffendale was gone, and the body was being carried, according to law, to an out-house of the nearest inn, and Justice was very deep in thought, so deep that he started to hear his name suddenly called behind him in a loud voice. He turned and saw the young labourer who had first discovered what lay at the bottom of the well. He was still pale of face and excited, and he gesticulated as he came running up to the gamekeeper's side.

"Well?" said Justice.

The lad lifted his hand and wiped his forehead.

"God!" he ejaculated. "I—I wish I'd niver seen that theer! It's given me a reight turn. I shall see it agen to-neet when I get to bed. I wish I'd niver set ees on it, Mestur Justice. A reight bad turn!"

Justice began to walk on. The young labourer walked at his side, obviously glad to have living flesh and blood near him.

"Why should it give you a right bad turn any more than anybody else?" asked the gamekeeper presently. "Other folk saw it as well as you, you know, young fellow."

"Aye, but I were t' first to see it," answered the lad. "I were t' varry first. An' ye see, Mestur Justice, bi all accounts, I were t' last to see yon theer Pippany Webster alive. But theer's noabody but me knows that."

The gamekeeper's ears pricked themselves instinctively, and his heart gave a smart bound. He made no reply, and showed no sign of special interest for the moment, but after they had walked on a little way further down the hill, he turned and looked at his companion with an affectation of concern and sympathy.

"Dear, dear!" he said. "Aye, I see you do look bad, Moreby, my lad. Here, let's turn across this meadow to my cottage, and I'll give you a drop of something to pull you round. You'll do with it."

"Why, thankin' you kindly, Mestur Justice," replied Moreby. "I were just thinkin' o' turnin' into t' Bear, like, to hey' a drop o' summat—I feel like I did once when I fainted when t' doctors were settin' a brokken arm 'at I happened."

"I'll give you some better stuff than you'd get at the Bear," said Justice. "Here, come on."

He opened a gate by the wayside, and conducting his companion across a meadow, which lay at the back of the village street, took him through the garden of the gamekeeper's cottage into Mrs. Justice's best parlour by a side door. Mrs. Justice was just then in the kitchen preparing tea; Justice passed on to her, obtained a lamp, water and glasses, and telling her to leave him alone for as long as he remained in the parlour, went back and took down a bottle of whisky from a corner cupboard. He poured out a liberal dose for Moreby, and helped himself to a smaller one.

"There, drink that, my lad," he said, with friendly hospitality. "That 'll pull you round—that's better stuff than you'd get at the Bear for love or money. It's some whisky, this, that my lord sent down a month or two since—six bottles of it for a present: it's what he drinks himself, is this."

Moreby gazed at his glass with awed interest.

"Well, here's my best respects, sir," he said, and drank. The colour came back to his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled. He set down his glass, drawing a long breath. "Aye, I wanted summat like that, Mestur Justice—I felt all dithery, like. Ye see, mestur, it come over me all of a sudden when t' body were browt up and we knew 'at it were Pippany Webster 'at just as I believe I were t' last to see him alive, so I were t' first to find him dead—what? Summat like what my owd mother, if she'd been alive, wo'd ha' called a judgment, mestur."

"Aye, just so," observed the gamekeeper, calmly lighting his pipe and passing his tobacco over to his guest. "Here, I see you've got a pipe in your waistcoat pocket there—have a bit o' bacca—that'll do your nerves good. And so," he continued, when Moreby had begun to smoke, "and so you think you were the last to see Webster alive, were you, my lad?"

Moreby took another pull at his glass and grinned.

"Well, I niver heard o' nobody i' t' village 'at iver did see him after I did," he answered. "I niver said nowt about it, 'cause ye see, Mestur Justice, I hed mi reasons for sayin' nowt. But I'll tell you what it wor, 'cause it doesn't matter now—me an' t' young woman's concluded to break t' affair off, mutual, ye see, sir."

"Oh!" said Justice carelessly. "So there was a young woman in it, was there?"

Moreby grinned again, wagging his head.

"It were t' blacksmith dowter, ye see," he said, with a wink. "Her an' me, we wor doing a bit o' courtin' at that time, but we didn't want nobody to know, 'cause her father 'ud ha' been on to us. Howsomiver, one Sunda' evenin' a while back, her an' me hed met i' one o' them fields o' Perris's, near t' Cherry-trees, and we wor in a nice comfortable place i' t' hedgerow, wheer nobody could see us, and we see'd Pippany come across t' fields and mak' for Cherry-trees, and we see'd him sort o' spyin' about t' outside o' stackyard, and lookin' ower t' wall, and at last he went behind t' stacks, and then we niver see'd him agen, tho' we were theer till t' dark come on. And I niver heerd tell o' nobody ever seein' t' man efter that, sir—at least not i' Martinsthorpe. I kep' mi ears oppen, but I niver heerd 'at he wor seen bi onnybody. An' now then, I shan't mind who I tell, nor yit will t' blacksmith dowter."

Justice rose and put away the whisky bottle.

"Don't you say a word, my Tad, just yet," he said, laying his hand on Moreby's shoulder. "Keep it to yourself till I tell you to speak. Pippany Webster was murdered!—and somebody'll swing for it. Keep quiet till I come to you."

Then he sent Moreby home, bidding him to eat a good supper, to drink no more, and to go to bed early, and Moreby, much impressed, promised, and went. When he had gone Justice ate and drank heartily, and with another curt word to his wife mounted his pony and rode off to the market-town and the police.