A Tale of a Lonely Parish Part 37

"I did not kill him after all," said G.o.ddard, turning himself a little as though to be more at his ease.

"No," answered John. "He is not hurt at all. Can you tell me who you are?" For his life, he could not help asking the question. It seemed so easy to find out who the fellow was, now that he could speak intelligibly. But G.o.ddard's face contracted suddenly, in a hideous smile.

"Don't you wish you knew?" he said roughly. "But I know you, my boy, I know you--ha! ha! There's no getting away from you, my boy, is there?"

"Who am I?" asked John in astonishment.

"You are the hangman," said G.o.ddard. "I know you very well. The hangman is always so well dressed. I say, old chap, turn us off quick, you know--no fumbling about the bolt. Look here--I like your face," he lowered his voice--"there are nearly sixty pounds in my right-hand trouser pocket--there are--Mary--ah--gave--M--a--"

Again his eyes fixed themselves and the moaning began and continued. John was horror-struck and stood for a moment gazing at his face, over which the deep flush had spread once more, seeming to obliterate all appearance of intelligence. Then the young man put his hand beneath G.o.ddard's head and gently replaced him in his former position, smoothing the pillows, and giving him a little brandy. He debated whether or not he should call the squire from his rest to tell him what had happened, but seeing that G.o.ddard had now returned to his former state, he supposed such moments of clear speech were to be expected from time to time. He sat down again, and waited; then after a time he went to the window and looked anxiously for the dawn. It seemed an intolerably long night.

But the day came at last and shed a ghastly grey tinge upon the sick-room, revealing as it were the outlines of all that was bad to look at, which the warm yellow candle-light had softened with a kindlier touch. John accidentally looked at himself in the mirror as he pa.s.sed and was startled at his own pale face; but the convict, labouring in the ravings of his fever, seemed unconscious of the dawning day; he was not yet exhausted and his harsh voice never ceased its jarring gibber. John wondered whether he should ever spend such a night again, and shuddered at the recollection of each moment.

The daylight waked the squire from his slumbers, however, and before the sun was up he came out of the dressing-room, looking almost as fresh as though nothing had happened to him in the night. Accustomed for years to rise at all hours, in all weathers, unimpressionable, calm and strong, he seemed superior to the course of events.

"Well, Mr. Short, you allowed me a long nap. You must be quite worn out, I should think. How is the patient?"

John told what had occurred.

"Took you for the hangman, did he?" said the squire. "I wonder why--but you say he asked after me very sensibly?"

"Quite so. It was when I asked him his own name, that he began raving again," answered John innocently.

"What made you ask him that?" asked Mr. Juxon, who did not seem pleased.

"Curiosity," was John's laconic answer.

"Yes--but I fancy it frightened him. If I were you I would not do it again, if he has a lucid moment. I imagine it was fright that made him delirious in the first instance."

"All right," quoth John. "I won't." But he made his own deductions. The squire evidently knew who he was, and did not want John to know, for some unexplained reason. The young man wondered what the reason could be; the mere name of the wretched man was not likely to convey any idea to his mind, for it was highly improbable that he had ever met him before his conviction. So John departed to his own room and refreshed himself with a tub, while the squire kept watch by daylight.

It was not yet eight o'clock when Holmes brought a note from the vicar, which Mr. Juxon tore open and read with anxious interest.

"MY DEAR MR. JUXON--I received your note late last night, but I judged it better to answer this morning, not wishing to excite suspicion by sending to you at so late an hour. The intelligence is indeed alarming and you will, I daresay, understand me, when I tell you that I found it necessary to communicate it to Mrs. Ambrose--"

The squire could not refrain from smiling at the vicar's way of putting the point; but he read quickly on.

"She however--and I confess my surprise and gratification--desires to accompany me to the Hall this morning, volunteering to take all possible care of the unfortunate man. As she has had much experience in visiting the sick, I fancy that she will render us very valuable a.s.sistance in saving his life. Pray let me know if the plan has your approval, as it may be dangerous to lose time.--Yours sincerely,

"AUGUSTIN AMBROSE."

Mr. Juxon was delighted to find that the difficult task of putting Mrs.

Ambrose in possession of the facts of the case had been accomplished in the ordinary, the very ordinary, course of events by her own determination to find out what was to be known. In an hour she might be at G.o.ddard's bedside, and Mrs. G.o.ddard would be free to see her husband.

He despatched a note at once and redoubled his attentions to the sick man whose condition, however, showed no signs of changing.

CHAPTER XXII.

Mrs. Ambrose kept her word and arrived with the vicar before nine o'clock, protesting her determination to take care of poor G.o.ddard, so long as he needed any care. Mr. Juxon warned her that John did not know who the man was, and entreated her to be careful of her speech when John was present. There was no reason why John should ever know anything more about it, he said; three could keep a secret, but no one knew whether four could be as discreet.

The squire took Mrs. Ambrose and her husband to G.o.ddard's room and telling her that Doctor Longstreet was expected in an hour, by which time he himself hoped to have returned, he left the two good people in charge of the sick man and went to see Mrs. G.o.ddard. He sent John a message to the effect that all was well and that he should take some rest while the Ambroses relieved the watch, and having thus disposed his household he went out, bound upon one of the most disagreeable errands he had ever undertaken. But he set his teeth and walked boldly down the park.

At the turn of the avenue he paused, at the spot where G.o.ddard had attacked him. There was nothing to be seen at first, for the road was hard and dry and there was no trace of the scuffle; but as the squire looked about he spied his hat, lying in the ditch, and picked it up. It was heavy with the morning dew and the brim was broken and bent where G.o.ddard's weapon had struck it. Hard by in a heap of driven oak leaves lay the weapon itself, which Mr. Juxon examined curiously. It was a heavy piece of hewn oak, evidently very old, and at one end a thick iron spike was driven through, the sharp point projecting upon one side and the wrought head upon the other. He turned it over in his hands and realised that he had narrowly escaped his death. Then he laid the hat and the club together and threw a handful of leaves over them, intending to take them to the Hall at a later hour, and he turned to go upon his way towards the cottage. But as he turned he saw two men coming towards him, and now not twenty yards away. His heart sank, for one of the two was Thomas Gall the village constable; the other was a quiet-looking individual with grey whiskers, plainly dressed and una.s.suming in appearance. Instinctively the squire knew that Gall's companion must be a detective. He was startled, and taken altogether unawares; but the men were close upon him and there was nothing to be done but to face them boldly.

Gall made his usual half military salute as he came up, and the man in plain clothes raised his hat politely.

"The gentleman from Lunnon, sir," said Gall by way of introduction, a.s.suming an air of mysterious importance.

"Yes?" said Mr. Juxon interrogatively. "Do you wish to speak to me?"

"The gentleman's come on business, sir. In point of fact, sir, it's the case we was speakin' of lately."

The squire knew very well what was the matter. Indeed, he had wondered that the detective had not arrived sooner. That did not make it any easier to receive him, however; on the contrary, if he had come on the previous day matters would have been much simpler.

"Very well, Gall," answered Mr. Juxon. "I am much obliged to you for bringing Mr.--" he paused and looked at the man in plain clothes.

"Booley, sir," said the detective.

"Thank you--yes--for bringing Mr. Booley so far. You may go home, Gall.

If we need your services we will send to your house."

"It struck me, sir," remarked Gall with a bland smile, "as perhaps I might be of use--prefeshnal in fact, sir."

"I will send for you," said the detective, shortly. The manners of the rural constabulary had long ceased to amuse him.

Gall departed rather reluctantly, but to make up for being left out of the confidential interview which was to follow, he pa.s.sed his thumb round his belt and thrust out his portly chest as he marched down the avenue.

He subsequently spoke very roughly to a little boy who was driving an old sheep to the butcher's at the other end of the village.

Mr. Juxon and the detective turned back and walked slowly towards the Hall.

"Will you be good enough to state exactly what the business is," said the squire, well knowing that it was best to go straight to the point.

"You are Mr. Juxon, I believe?" inquired Mr. Booley looking at his companion sharply. The squire nodded. "Very good, Mr. Juxon," continued the official. "I am after a man called Walter G.o.ddard. Do you know anything about him? His wife, Mrs. Mary G.o.ddard, lives in this village."

"Walter G.o.ddard is at this moment in my house," said the squire calmly.

"I know all about him. He lay in wait for me at this very spot last night and attacked me. My dog pulled him down."

The detective was somewhat surprised at the intelligence, and at the cool manner in which his companion conveyed it.

"I am very glad to hear that. In that case I will take him at once."

"I fear that is impossible," answered the squire. "The man is raving in the delirium of a brain fever. Meanwhile I shall be glad if you will stay in the house, until he is well enough to be moved. The doctor will be here at ten o'clock, and he will give you the details of the case better than I can. It would be quite impossible to take him away at present."

"May I ask," inquired Mr. Booley severely, "why you did not inform the local police?"