Читать книгу Sea Fog - J. S. Fletcher - Страница 8

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I broke in upon whatever it was that old Hentidge was going to tell us and startled him and the other two, by leaping to the window with outstretched hand.

“That’s him—that’s him!” I shouted, forgetful of the grammar lessons I had learnt at Horsham School. “There!”

Trace leapt after me, staring.

“Who—who?” he exclaimed. “What’s the lad mean?”

“That man there, just going by!” I said. “That’s the man I talked to at Petworth, and saw at Graffham—you know!”

“Come on, then,” he responded. “Let’s be after him. If he’s here——”

He raced out of the house and I followed sharp on his heels. At the edge of the garden we caught sight of the man again. He was going slowly towards the hill-side, his hands in his pockets, his head dropping forward, just as I had seen him twice before. I vaulted the low wall and bawled loudly. He turned on the instant, stared at me for a moment, and then began to retrace his steps slowly. From the very leisureliness of his movements, I knew that this man was innocent of the murder of that morning; no guilty man would have taken his time as he did. He recognised me as we drew near each other, and he grinned in a sort of sheepish fashion. I scarcely knew what to say to him, but he relieved my uncertainty by speaking first.

“You, eh?” he said. “Here, too? Well, I reckon I’ve found it, at last. Up yonder—unless I’m sore mistaken.”

“The mill?” said I.

“What else?” he retorted. “As I say—if not sore mistaken. But”—here he turned, pointing to the mouth of a lane which opened on the village street just beneath Hentidge’s farmstead—“I’ve been taking a view of that mill for the last mile or two as I come along there, and in my opinion yon is the very mill I’m seeking, and that I told you about. Leastways, as far as I could observe the lie of the land where it stands. I was going up there when you called me back.”

Trace had come up by that time and was looking curiously at the man. The man returned the look, equally curious.

“You came along that lane—just now?” asked Trace suddenly.

“I did, master—if you want to know. A long cast by it, too—miles!” answered the man. “And—why?”

“From—where?” enquired Trace.

“Seems like this was a catechism class,” remarked the man, smiling. “But, Lord!—I don’t mind saying. Chichester!”

“You’ve only just come into this village, then?” continued Trace.

“Five minutes ago, master.”

“Spoken to anybody?”

“Ain’t seen a soul to speak to, till I see you two!” said the man with a grin. “And once more I says—why? Why this here catechising?”

Trace gave me a look, and I saw that he wanted me to do the next speaking. I gave the man a glance that was meant to be full of significance.

“Look here!” I said. “You know all you told me about your wanting to find that mill? Very well!—there was a man murdered up there this morning!”

We were both watching him narrowly, and we saw at once that this curt announcement hit him full and hard, and that deep in his mind there was something struck him about my news which was secret to himself. His eyes grew wide; his mouth opened; he remained open-mouthed for a full minute, staring at me. When at last he spoke, his speech came haltingly.

“A—man—murdered—this morning?” he said incredulously. “What man?”

“That’s what we don’t know,” remarked Trace. “A strange man—unknown. Look here!” he went on after a pause, during which the man continued to stare at us. “Why did you want to find this old mill?”

The man looked Trace up and down, very slowly.

“My business, master!” he answered.

“Very good—so it is, no doubt,” said Trace. “But you told this lad you were very keen about finding it. Do you know of anybody else who was equally keen?”

At this point the man did precisely what I had seen him do in Petworth churchyard: he pulled out his queer tobacco-box and helped himself to a liberal quid of the plug which he kept there.

“There may ha’ been,” he answered, as he closed his clasp-knife with a snap. “I won’t say other than that there may ha’ been. But ’tis odd—if so be as this is the mill I want—that another man should chance on it about the same time as I do, and then meet his death there! Murdered, you say?—and unknown?”

We nodded, silent; we were still watching him keenly, and I think Trace had the same wonder in his mind that I had. But the man was now cool as granite under our inspection.

“Who done it?” he enquired suddenly. “Where there’s a murder, there’s a murderer! Who was it, in this here case?”

“That’s unknown too,” replied Trace. He turned towards the village. “Look here!” he said. “You’d better come and see the murdered man! His body’s at the inn, awaiting the inquest. The policeman lives just down here—he’ll show you.”

The man showed no particular emotion one way or the other. He immediately turned to go with us.

“No objection,” he said. “A dead man or two makes no great difference to me. Seen a fair lot in my time!—under various circumstances. White ’uns and black ’uns!” he added, with a strong emphasis on the conjunction. “And yeller ’uns too, for that matter. This man—I reckon he’s white, eh?”

“Of course!” replied Trace.

“Of course, says you?” he remarked. “Aye well!—but in my train of thought I was thinking he might—just might, you observe?—ha’ been a nigger. There was a nigger, now I come to think on it—but let’s see this policeman and the body!”

I waited outside Preece’s cottage with the man while Trace fetched the sergeant out. Trace was some little time inside; when he and Preece emerged from the door, Preece had evidently been primed with the surface facts, and he immediately tackled the man with leading questions.

“You’re the man that this young fellow had talk with in Petworth churchyard the other night?” asked Preece. “About the locality of a mill?”

“We had talk—yes,” asserted the man. “A mill it was!”

“And you were at Graffham yesterday noon, eh?” continued Preece, “This young fellow saw you there; saw two men evidently pointing the way to you. Where did you go?—from Graffham?”

“Went all wrong!—along of what those men told me,” answered the man readily. “I went through Heyshott to Cocking, and then south to Lavant and Chichester. Them two at Graffham, they gave me certain information, but it was all no good.”

“Where were you at six o’clock this morning?” demanded Preece.

I saw at once what he was after, and I turned quickly on the man for his answer. It came just as quickly.

“In bed at Chichester!” he replied. “Temperance Hotel, in South Street. Didn’t get up till seven. Breakfast eight—then walked out here. And what’s all this here further catechism about, may I enquire? You can see what I am!” He paused and made a gesture of his hands, as if to invite Preece to look him well over. “Man o’ substance!—retired. Nice place o’ my own I have, at Fareham, with a mast in the front garden and a bit o’ glass at the back. My name’s Trawlerson—Mr. Hosea Trawlerson, Pernambuco Cottage, Fareham: them’s my directions. When at home, of course.”

I could see that this readily imparted information had its effect on the police-sergeant. His somewhat peremptory manner changed, and I thought he gave a sigh of relief, as if what Trawlerson had just told him shifted some burden off his shoulders. He nodded towards the village inn.

“Come this way, Mr. Trawlerson,” he said. “You’ve heard what’s happened here this morning? Well, you’re searching for a mill—a windmill—I understand you think it’s our mill, up there. Just so! Now, a strange man comes there last night and gets murdered close by, by some person unknown, at six o’clock this morning. Can you think—have you any idea—who the man can be?”

“At the moment, no!” replied Trawlerson. “Knocked me all of a heap to hear what this young fellow told me just now. Without doubt, what they call a coincidence. Queer altogether! Still, if I think back, and see this here dead man—you see,” he continued, after breaking off suddenly and then going on again in a burst of confidence, “you see, me having used the sea all my life till I retired, recent, I ha’ known a many things! Many things—queer things! Many men—still queerer! All sorts o’ things, some of ’em fitting one into another, and a many that wouldn’t fit nohow. Lots o’ faces too—white, black, brown, yeller. Now, if I see a face and can give it a name——”

We were close to the inn by that, and Preece led us to an outhouse and produced a key from his pocket.

“Let’s see if you can give this face a name, then,” he said. “If you can——”

He opened the door, and we all took off our caps and walked in, on tiptoe. The place was a saddle-room, tidy and quiet. What we had come to see lay, still enough, on a table in the centre, with a white sheet over it. Preece slowly raised the head of the sheet, and beckoned Trawlerson to approach.

“Now!” he whispered.

Carrying his hat under his arm, and still tiptoeing, Trawlerson went up and looked earnestly at the dead man. The next instant he started back.

“Good Lord!” he whispered. “It’s Kest! Kest! Now, what the——”

Suddenly checking himself, he drew away; the next instant he was outside the door, in the sunlight, beckoning us to follow.

“Come out!” he commanded, clawing impatiently at us. “Come out! Well, of all the—here!” he went on as Preece came last, locking the door. “This here is an inn, ain’t it? Of course! Now, is there a quiet, peaceful corner in it where——”

Preece was quick to see what he wanted, and motioning Trace and me to follow, he led the way into the inn, and, after a word with the landlord, conducted us into a small room at the back of the bar. We had that place to ourselves, but Trawlerson would not say a word until he had refreshed himself with rum: phlegmatic as he had always been up to that point, it was very evident that his recognition of the dead man had shaken his imperturbability. And there was something approaching very real and serious anxiety in the first question he put to Preece as soon as he set down his tumbler, one-half the contents of which he had tossed off with eagerness as soon as the landlord put it before him.

“This here man?” he asked, jerking his thumb towards the outhouse. “Kest! What had he on him? Who found what he had?”

“I searched the body,” replied Preece. “Precious little, Mr. Trawlerson. No letters, no papers. A handkerchief. A knife. Nine shillings and fivepence-halfpenny in silver and copper. That was all. But,” he added, eyeing his questioner closely, “he had had more than that on him. This young man saw things on him last night which weren’t there when I examined the clothing. There was a watch and chain. And—there was a map.”

The effect of that last word on Trawlerson was marked. He jumped in his seat; the veins swelled in his forehead; he glared at Preece, and I saw his fist bunch itself into an ugly knot of twisting muscle.

“A map!” he exclaimed. “What sort of a map? D’ye mean—but here, I’m all at sea! This young man saw—what did he see? Let him tell! I want to be knowing! Kest here!—knifed—a map?—it’s—it’s——” He swallowed another mouthful of his drink, and waved the glass at me before setting it down. “Let’s be hearing!” he commanded. “Tell it plain—plain!”

I looked to the police-sergeant for his approval, and as he nodded, I proceeded to tell my story for the third time that morning. As I went on, Trawlerson’s face grew blacker and blacker; it became thunderous when I came to describe the map. But when I corroborated the policeman in his statement that the map had disappeared by the time the body was examined, his temper gave way, and he broke out on me for a damned young fool for leaving the man. I should have stayed by him, he vociferated, till the sea fog cleared and help came.

“Fool yourself, Mr. Trawlerson!” I threw back at him. “Who are you to be calling names? You were——”

“No words, no words!” interrupted Preece hastily. “The lad did his best, Mr. Trawlerson. But this map——”

Trawlerson, who had thrust his hands into his pockets, stretched his legs under the table, and drooped his head forward on his chest in an attitude of sulkiness, turned on the policeman with a scowl.

“What are you and your like doing to find the man as done this?” he demanded. “Kest, he’s been followed! For that map, of course. Either the man as scragged him got it before he done it, or he came back when this lad was gone, and got it. In either case——”

“We’re doing all we can, in the time,” said Preece. “You’ll find no slackness on our part, Mr. Trawlerson! But this map——”

Instead of answering, Trawlerson slapped his hand on the bell, and, the landlord appearing, motioned him to replenish his glass.

“I ain’t going to say a word more!” he announced, turning sharply on Preece. “Not one syllable! There’ll be a crowner’s ’quest on this here body, and I shall be there——”

“You’ll have to be!” interrupted Preece. “I don’t know any other who can identify him.”

Trawlerson gave him a dark look. His behaviour had changed, and was becoming mysterious.

“I shall be there for something else than that!” he said grimly. “In this house it’ll be, and in this house I stops till the crowner comes! And till then my mouth’s shut!”