Читать книгу The Ninth Earl - John Jeffery Farnol - Страница 8

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Within that very pleasant, slumberous though dignified town of Horsham, in a grassy, tree-shaded thoroughfare that was (and is) neither street, road, alley nor lane, and called, for some reason not apparent, the Causeway, Mr. Jackman had his abode and place of business.

Here in one of the stately old houses generations of Jackmans had lived and transacted business, which fact was duly set forth upon a small brass plate, with dignified simplicity, and had been wont to bear the legend:

JACKMAN AND SON,

Attorneys at Law.

But upon this particular summer morning George stood gazing at this plate, with his grey eyes bright as the day because this inscription now informed the world that here were to be found

JACKMAN, SON, AND BELL,

Attorneys at Law,

etc.

So George gazed until, becoming aware of a presence, he started, turned—and beheld Mr. Jasper Shrig of Bow Street, who also gazed and beamed at this newly engraved lettering.

“Bell!” he murmured, caressing his smooth, shaven chin with knob of the formidable, knobbed stick he bore. “Bell!” he repeated, as if testing the sound of it. “And a werry good name, too, being easy to be took down, easier to pro-nounce, and sounding like a knell—as calls to mind old church towers and nice, green graveyards——”

“Which,” George retorted, “is a devilish unpleasant suggestion!”

“Ay, p’r’aps ’tis, Mr. Bell sir, so I dooly axes pardon therefor, for, d’ye see, sir, my mind nat’rally runs to graveyards, bones and sich just at present. And talking o’ Mr. Jackman——”

“Eh, Mr. Jackman?”

“That i-denticle, sir, said gen’leman has went to London.”

“Did he, by Jupiter——”

“No, sir, by the night mail. But afore so doing, wrote you this here!” And from the cavernous interior of his hat Mr. Shrig extracted a letter which he handed to George with a little bow, who broke the seal forthwith, and read:

“Thursday night. In haste.

12th July, 1816.

“My dear George,

“Thanks to discovery of letter writ by my respected father forty-five years ago, to his friend Richard Spenlow of Spenlow and Hicks, Lincoln’s Inn, re Earl Philip’s departure for America, 10th May, 1763, per ship Swiftsure of London, thither I go hoping (against hope) to discover other facts. Meanwhile do you accompany and aid Shrig in his researches, you will find him a lively companion and his methods highly original. Though as to finding this long missing heir my hope (as I say) is exceeding small. However, pray know me for

“Your friend and (I trust) longtime

partner,

“John Jackman.”

Refolding this letter, George beheld Mr. Shrig beaming at him, though with eyes remarkably keen, a quick, bright glance that, having taken him in as it were, from hat to boots, roved hither and yon as if finding great interest in all about them.

“Well,” said George. “Mr. Jackman suggests I accompany you in your enquiries. How say you?”

“Sir, I says ar, and heartily! For, Mr. Bell sir, you look, if I may say so, a cove dependable, ’specially in tight corners! And, sir, tight corners seem made especial for me, ar—and never a corner as ain’t chockful o’ windictiveness in shape o’ boots, bludgeons, knives—and—a occasional chimbley-pot! In vich circumstances, sir, I’m pretty sure you’d be the true-blue article.”

“I’m glad you think so,” laughed George. “But why are you so sure of me?”

“Because, sir, you reminds me of another young gen’leman as is a reg’lar two-fisted terror, a Mr. Robin Dale——”

“Oho!” cried George. “Lord love you, Shrig, do you know Robin?”

“Ar—from his boyhood hour, sir! And I can tell you as how Mr. Robin is about the only man I ever heard tell on as knocked Jessamy Todd off his pins!”

“Did he, though—did he? And Jessamy Todd! Don’t tell me,” said George, in a tone very like awe, “that you know Jessamy also?”

“That I do, sir, and his partner Jerry Jarvis the Tinker as wrote werses—pomes as rhymes, as a gen’leman had printed into a book!”

“Jessamy Todd, Robin Dale ... and you know ’em both! Shrig, this is perfectly marvellous! Robin and I were at the university together, we used to spar regularly, and I know how mighty good he is, but, by Jove, I never knew he had floored Jessamy. Did you see?”

“No, sir, vorse luck! But Jessamy told me of it—so did Jerry Jarvis. And talking o’ this here wanished heir, Mr. Bell, sir——”

“Eh—who?” exclaimed George, jerked thus abruptly from past to present. “Oh—ah, yes—yes, to be sure. What do you suggest?”

“First, the King’s Head, sir; second, The Black Hoss; and third, any other inn, tavern or ale-houses as you knows. For this being market-day they’ll be busy and full o’ talk.”

“Certainly, Shrig, but nothing to help us, merely talk of crops, cattle and so on.”

“Hows’ever, sir, today, folk may talk o’ summat else and werry different.”

“How so, and of what, pray?”

“Rags and bones, p’r’aps, and the seventh Earl.”

“But how on earth can they? We only knew of this ourselves a few days ago.”

“Sir, I’m lodging at the King’s Head—and, Mr. Bell sir, besides eyes and ears I’ve got a tongue, or, as you might say, a chaffer, and on occasion I uses ’em all——”

“Meaning you’ve told, made this quite horrible affair public?”

“Ar, as public, sir, and as horrible as in me lay to do! Mr. Bell, sir, I made them poor bones rattle thereselves into a skellington as jigged! I made that fatherless infant veep for his wanished dad! Sir, I told them as listened sech a tale o’ blood and grief that, arter I’d done, they was so dumbstruck that as I drank my ale I could hear myself swaller!”

It was now that, leaving the dignified hush of the Causeway, they emerged into the busy street and riot of voices, for all about them were folk, men and women of all sorts and conditions—sturdy, red-faced farmers with their buxom wives and daughters, redder-faced squires with their ladies, drovers and yeomen in their best smock-frocks, and a joyous bustle everywhere, more especially about, and within, that ancient, spacious hostelry of the King’s Head. Hither, by means of cheery word and powerful shoulder, Mr. Shrig won his way, with George at his heels, until they reached the long coffee-room thronged, it seemed, with folk of the better sort. Here, in remote corner, Mr. Shrig halted and, beckoning George near, uttered the one word:

“Hark!”

So George listened to this entirely masculine babblement (for in these coarser days no woman would enter such places); so male voices only talked, laughed or shouted greetings; and thus for some while, George listened to no purpose. But, little by little, among this confused babel, he began to distinguish individual voices, then words, and at last:

“Devy’lish queer tale, doncheknow!”

“Queer? M’dear f’ler, I’d call it more than queer....”

And now, from different quarter:

“Ah, a skeleton! Didn’t ye hear about it ... ghastly ... rags and bones.... Yes, so I hear ... believed to be remains ... seventh Earl....”

And then, from yet another direction:

“Murder ... suicide ... who knows? Who can say ... best say nothing ... dangerous....”

“Pack o’ damn nonsense!” piped a voice, shrill with age, and dominating. “Philip died abroad, slaughtered by damn Indians ... saw his name posted in the Gazette ... fifty odd years ago ... knew him well ... rode with him in the hunting field ... regular dare-devil, so was I. Challenged his cousin to a duel; some woman, a course. I was his second, but it didn’t come off, pity! Got himself killed abroad instead, great pity. So no more tattle o’ suicide or murder—damn nonsense!” The fiercely indignant old voice snorted, coughed and was lost in the general hubbub, whereupon Mr. Shrig, motioning George to bide still, edged himself into the crowd and vanished.

Thus alone, George listened the more intently and several times caught the grim words, uttered here and there: “Skeleton....” “Rags and bones? ...” “Murder....”

“The old gent,” said Mr. Shrig, appearing suddenly at his elbow, “is Sir John Trent, a regular old cock o’ the roost as I’ve heered tell on afore now, a fighter years ago, steel and ball, a dooelist, and what he don’t know o’ life—and death—ain’t! So tomorrow, sir, I suggest us goes a-wisiting.”

“You mean we call on Sir John?”

“Ah! D’ye happen to know him, Mr. Bell?”

“Oh yes, he is one of our clients, always has been, and is sometimes pretty troublesome—a fiery old boy.”

“And now, sir, talking o’ vitches——”

“Of what?” George enquired.

“A vitch, sir, spelt vith a wee, W I T C H. There is a werry old, ex-tremely aged fee-male party name of Hagah as they calls a vitch and——”

“Ay, so they do, the fools—and the dear old soul so perfectly harmless and——”

“Sure o’ that, sir, are you?”

“Of course I am, dammit!”

“Hows’ever, Mr. Bell, I never see a vitch as looked more so—that nose and chin and they eyes sharp as needles and a desp’rate fierce——”

“And no wonder! Hardship and ill-usage are apt to make anyone fierce, and in her long life poor old Hagah has suffered very much by reason of ignorance and foolish superstition!”

“And that great, black tomcat o’ hern, eyes big and yeller as guineas and never a blink.”

“And her only companion, Shrig. Loneliness now as ever. Long ago they threatened to burn her, damn them! And once they would have drowned her but that my grandfather, Squire Standish, happened along on his horse and scattered the mob with hoofs and whip, bless him! Since when, Hagah has been devoted to us—ay, and saved my baby life!”

“Vitch, sir, nothing could be fairer.”

“So you’ve seen her already, have you, Shrig?”

“Ar, from a distance, sir.”

“Well, where do we go now, pray?”

“Sir, in my comings and goings I have found me a little inn, werry cosy and peaceful, vith a signboard and summat painted thereon as looks werry like a sack o’ po-taters but says as it’s a bear.”

“Precisely!” laughed George. “And the Bear lies just beyond our village.”

“Ar, and not so werry fur from your resi-dence.”

“Sparklebrook, my aunt’s cottage.”

“And, if I may say so, a werry handsome upstanding figure of a lady she is, sir, and no error!”

“Don’t tell me you know her, too?”

“Not yet, sir, but I live in hopes. And talking o’ Bears, I’m hoping as you’ll honour me in a pint, sir, or say a couple?”

“Gladly, if you’ll honour me in another.”

“Ditter, sir! Ale and England goes nat’rally together and can’t be beat, as old Boney found out t’other day at Vaterloo.”

“Ay, thank God——”

“Heartily!” quoth Mr. Shrig, his bright glance following a lark that soared above them as if upborne upon its own melody. “And talking of the Lady Clytie Moor——”

“Eh? Well, what of her?”

“A bee-u-tiful creatur’, and, though a lady, a reg’lar femmy-nine rasper——”

“Then let’s talk of something better—the Bear, for instance, for there it is, ay, and landlord Ben waiting to greet us.”

So to this small, though very cosy inn, set about by a garden abloom with flowers, they hastened to be welcomed by sturdy Ben with friendly grin and two pewter pots abrim with creamy foam, saying:

“Master Jarge, I see ee a-coming——”

“And p’r’aps,” suggested Mr. Shrig, tendering a coin, “you’ll j’ine us, landlord, and tell us more con-carning this ghost or apparition?”

“Eh, ghost?” enquired George, tankard at lip. “What ghost, Ben?”

“Why, Must’ Jarge, I don’t prezackly know. I nowise never heard o’ no ghost till this yere gen’leman takin’ his pint along o’ us last night axed if any o’ we had seen aught o’ the ghost o’ this poor gen’leman as was found up yon at the Castle, laying in his bones.”

“Oh?” murmured George, glancing at Mr. Shrig, who chanced to be gazing dreamily out of the open lattice along the winding, tree-shaded road as he answered:

“Ar! Talking o’ spekilators, goblings and sich like, there’s some folk as can’t see and some as can—like that werry old person as I heered tell of here last night, a Mr. Terris or Ferris.”

“Oh, him!” laughed Ben. “Old Gaffer Ferris be a bit doddlish, ’specially arter a pint or so o’ my ale.”

“Like enough!” nodded Mr. Shrig, his glance still questing the road. “Though last evening somebody said as how old Mr. Ferris see a ghost once, though mebbe I’m mistook——”

“No, sir, youm right, for ’twere Tom Finch last night as says, along o’ your talk o’ ghosts, as how old Jabez Ferris did see one once years and years ago. Though ’tweren’t no ghost, for what old Jabez see, or says ’e see, was, properly speakin’, no more than a babby on a tumbstone.”

“Only that?” exclaimed Mr. Shrig like one vastly disappointed. “Only a—baby on a tombstone?” Here he shook his head with such very evident disparagement that Ben actually flushed and retorted:

“Mister, lemme tell ee as how babbies on tumbstones ain’t to be found in every village, specially at midnight!”

“Eh? Midnight?” repeated Mr. Shrig, as with sudden respectful interest. “Midnight, says you? Come, that’s better, says I. Ar, that’s oceans better, that is! And—how long ago?”

“ ’Twere long afore I were born! So long ago as old Jabez were then a young sailorman off fighting they French as sent him limpin’ ’ome w’ a ball in his leg as old Hagah, being a witch, cured by spells and ’chantments——”

“Ben, don’t be a fool!” said George. “It was by her skill in medicine and surgery.”

“Asking y’r pardon, Master Jarge, but everyone said as how she witched that old bullet out o’ Jabez’s leg by sayin’ the Lord’s prayer backards—or some sich as ’e’ll tell ee, for old gaffer’ll be here along drackly-minute for his morning pint—ay, and yonder ’e comes.

“So I see,” nodded Mr. Shrig, “and a hearty old Meethoosalem he looks—at this distance.”

“Sure-ly, sir, ’e do look even heartier near-to. I’ll go draw his ale.”

“So,” said George, soon as they were alone, “you were watching for him, eh, Shrig?”

“Sir, since you ax so p’inted, I answers open and free—that’s so.”

“But surely you don’t swallow this ridiculous tale?”

“Mr. Bell, sir, there’s time I can swaller so werry much as is ass-tounding!”

Old Jabez, being athirst (as usual), used his aged legs with surprising vigour and voice also, for, as he drew near, he hailed lustily, sailor fashion:

“Oho, Ben, stand by! Ale, m’lad, ale! I be comin’ abord, so ale, Ben, ale!” With the word upon his clean-shaven lips, he stumped in—then checked stride and speech to stare at George and shake his old head reprovingly.

“Eh—Master Jarge,” he exclaimed in tone of virtuous rebuke, “arl ’mazed and ’sprised I be for to see ee settin’ yere a-gulpin’ ale ’stead o’ bein’ ’ard at work wi’ y’r laws—like I been wi’ spade and ’oe, ar, and rake, fork and barrer likewise! Me so old and a weel-barrer, and you s’ young and a pint pot! Ef I was to tell on ee t’ y’r leddy aunt wot would Miss Belle say to ee! Lordy-lord, I shivers to think! And, Master Jarge, she’ve been an’ gone an’ give me notice again, she ’ave!”

“Oho, and what was it this time, old Heartofoak?”

“The ‘o’ Master Jarge, the danged ‘o’! I apped to ketch it agin one of ’er noo rose bushes—and she turned me adrift—on the spot, though I didn’t tak’ no ’eed. But one o’ these times I’ll tak ’er at ’er word and bear away and never nowise come back no more—nohow! No, not ef ’er goos down t’ me on ’er bended marrer-bones! And wot’ll ’er do then?”

“Lord knows, old hearty! But I know the place would never be the same without you.”

“You’m right, Master Jarge, no more it would—woeful sad-like ’twould be. And wot of ’er cabbages and sich? Her bean’t no ’and wi’ spade or fork, being only a lady——”

Here Ben reappeared, bearing a fourth cream-topped tankard and saying:

“Gaffer, this yere gen’leman be wishful for to ’ear your tale o’ the babby on the tumbstone.”

“Oh, du ’e so?” quoth Mr. Ferris, baring his old bald head to mop it, quite needlessly, with the vast red bandanna. “Then so ’e shall—on condition as ’e won’t lemme pine nor yet perish wi’ thirst, and the day so ’ot——”

“Friend,” said Mr. Shrig heartily, “the vord is—ale for a tale! So let’s hear.”

“So ee shall, master, only gimme time for to empty my pot and I’ll thankee kindly when ’tis full again!” So saying, he nodded to the company, puffed the foam from his tankard, emptied it at a draught, handed it to Ben and sighed ecstatically:

“Ah, thirst be a noble gift o’ natur’ ef a man may squench it praper wi’ such ale as Ben du brew, no question! And lookee now, theer bean’t no man as ever I heered on as ever see the ghost of a babby—on a tumbstone—as changed and growed itself into old Nick—in the blink of an eye! Not many folk ever see the like o’ that, eh?”

“Now let me think!” said Mr. Shrig, seeming to ponder this question. “No, I don’t believe I ever did—leastways not vun as changed so rapid——”

“No!” cried old Jabez rather truculently. “Nor you never nowise will, nowhen and nohow, nor nobody else in this here world won’t neither!”

Mr. Shrig’s agreement was so instant and hearty that the aged one, thus mollified, nodded, sipped his ale and began:

“Ages ago, when I were a praper upstanding young man, being cap’n o’ the fore-top o’ the old Bully Sawyer, seventy-four, I takes a Frenchee musket ball into my larboard leg and comes ’ome limpin’ an’ thinkin’ as how I’m crippled, a sheer hulk for the rest o’ my days, but old Hagah, being a witch——”

“A woman,” said George, “so good and wise she did more for you than all the surgeons!”

“Ay, ay, Mast’ Jarge, cured me she did by her spells and ’chantments, no question! Ay, ’er magicked that old ball out o’ my leg, sure-ly, and made me shipshape again and arl a-taunto! And ’twere then as it—’appened——” Here, like true artist, old Jabez paused to sip his ale.

“Well, get on, old ’un!” said Ben, with ever-renewed interest for this tale he had listened to so often. “Get on, Gaffer, will ee!”

“Be ee a-harkin’, Ben, wi’ both they ears o’ yours, eh?”

“Ay, wi’ both on ’em, sure-ly!”

“Then stand by, for ’ere we go. In them days I were courtin’ my Susan, and the shortest course to ’er feyther’s cottage lay athwart the churchyard, so theer I goes. ’Twere a fine summer night, the moon full and bearin’ about two p’ints to starboard o’ the Pole Star and arl things plain and clear, and I’m ’bout ’arfway ’cross the churchyard when I brings up mighty short and sudden—for there—right afore me—layin’ atop o’ Gammer Grigg’s ’eadstone as had fell flat—lays a babby, starin’ up at me wi’ eyes bright as di’monds and never a wink nor so much as a blink and nary a guggle nor croak!”

“So?” exclaimed Mr. Shrig, for the aged one had paused for another sip of ale. “And how then?” From his hat old Jabez drew the red bandanna handkerchief, wiped his lips and polished his scalp therewith, set it carefully back again, glanced eagle-eyed at his hearers and continued:

“Never a guggle nor croak! So then I hauls my wind to go ’bout, looks again—and—that theer babby had been witched into a gurt tall man—in a black cloak—and—glarin’ ’pon me from the shadder of ’is ’at as being uncocked, flopped and flapped arl ’bout his face—ah, but I see two fiery, flamin’ eyes in a face as were no more nor a glimmerin’ gleam! ’Twere old Nick hisself, no question! So I braced about and bore away afore ’e could witch me likewise, and were nigh choked wi’ the reek o’ brimstone as I went! And ef you ax me, I du b’leeve ’twere arl along-on-account-on that theer old Hagah——”

“Nonsense! exclaimed George.

“Eggs-ackly!” quoth Mr. Shrig, setting down his empty tankard with a bang. “Your tale, old friend, is ass-tounding! Ar, so werry much so I’m wishful to know just when you see this miracklous event. Can you remember how long ago ... the year?”

“Ay, sure-ly! ’Twere about the time as Farmer Denby’s old sow farrered twenty-two and they arl died ’cept two as never done no good till they died, too, so the old sow has arl that trouble for nowt. Ay, I reckon ’twould be over fifty year ago.”

“And that,” said Mr. Shrig, leaning forward, “that would be about the year seventeen hundred and sixty, eh, old friend?” And now George also leaned forward with suddenly awakened interest while old Jabez pondered the question, saying at last:

“Ay, ’twould be about then, for I mind that same week the weathercock o’ St. Mark carried away and was blowed into the stableyard o’ the Raven, and ’twere I as mended it and set it up again good as noo, and theer it’s been ever since. Parson Netherby give me ten shillings extra and mentioned me in his sarmon, that ’e did.”

“And here,” said Mr. Shrig, diving hand into breeches pocket, “here is another o’ the same, old friend, and my thanks along of it. And so, a werry good day till us meets again.”